



PRESENTED HY 




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THE SCOUT ; 

OR, 

THE BLACK RIDERS OF CONGAREE. 


BY W, GILMORE SIMMS, 

UTHOR OF “THE PARTISAN,” “ MELLICHAMPE,” “KATHARINE WALTON,” 
“WOODCRAFT,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “GUY RIVERS,” ETC. 


“ Failing', I know the penalty of failure 

Is present infamy and death pause not-, 

I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none.’ 

Marino Paliebo. 



IScw dr^t) IRe&i ztb 


CHICAGO AND NEW YORK: 

BELFORD, CLARKE & CO, 

1887. 




COLONEL WILLIAM DRAYTON, 


OF SOUTH CAROLINA, 


INSCRIBE THIS ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION IN OUR 
NATIVE STATE. 


Th.*: Author 




1 




































THE SCOUT. 


CHAPTER I. 

HISTORICAL SUMMARY. — THE SWAMP RETREA'i 

At the period when our story opens, the 'colonies of North 
America united in resistance to the mother-country, had closed the 
fifth year of their war of independence. The scene of conflict was 
by this time almost wholly transferred from the northern to the 
southern colonies. The former were permitted to repose from 
the struggle ; in their security almost ceasing to recognise thv 
necessity of arms ; while the latter, as if to compensate for their 
respite, in the beginning of the conflict, were subjected to the 
worst aspects and i images of war. The south, wholly abandoned 
to its fate by the colonies north of the Potomac, was unequal to 
the struggle single-handed. Their efforts at defence, however 
earnestly made, were for a time, apparently made in vain. In- 
experienced in regular warfare, with officers as indiscreet and 
cash as brave, they were everywhere exposed to surprise and 
consequently to defeat. They lacked money, rather than men, 
experience and training, rather than courage, concentration and 
unity, rather than strength. The two frontier colonies, South 
Carolina and Georgia — most feeble and most exposed, as lying 
upon the borders of Florida, which adhered to the crown, and 
which had proved a realm of refuge to all the loyalists when 
driven out from the other colonies — were supposed by the Bri* 


8 


THE SCOUT. 


ish commanders to be entirely recovered to the sway of their 
master. They suffered, in consequence, the usual fortune of 
the vanquished. But the very suffering proved that they lived, 
and the struggle for freedom was continued. Her battles, 

“ Once begun, 

Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son, 

Though often lost,” 

were never considered by her friends in Carolina to be utterly 
hopeless. Still, they had frequent reason to despair. Gates, 
the successful commander at Saratoga, upon whose great re- 
nown and feeble army the hopes of the south, for a season, ap- 
peared wholly to depend, had suffered a terrible defeat at Cam- 
den — his militia scattered to the four winds of Heaven-— his 
regulars almost annihilated in a conflict with thrice their num- 
ber, which, for fierce encounter and determined resolution, has 
never been surpassed ; while he, himself, a fugitive, covered 
with shame and disappointment, vainly hung out his tattered 
banner in the wilds of North Carolina — a colony sunk into an 
apathy which as effectually paralysed her exertions, as did the 
presence of superior power paralyse those of her more suffering 
sisters. Conscious of indiscretion and a most fatal presumption 
— the punishment of which had been as sudden as it was severe 
— the defeated general suffered far less from apprehension of 
his foes, than of his country. He had madly risked her strength, 
at a perilous moment, in a pitched battle, for which he had made 
no preparation — in which he had shown neither resolution nor 
ability. The laurels of his old renown withered in an instant— 
his reputation was stained with doubt, if not with dishonor. He 
stood, anxious and desponding, awaiting, with whatever moral 
strength he could command, the summons to that tribunal of his 
peers, upon which depended all the remaining honors of his ven- 
erable head. 

General Greene succeeded to the command of the miserable 
remnant of the southern army. Cool, prudent, and circumspect, 
rather than brilliant, as a soldier, this gentleman was, perhaps, 
one of the best that could be chosen for directing the efforts of 
a people whose impulses but too frequently impaired their con- 
duct — who were too eager to be wary, and who suffered per- 


HISTORICAL SUMMARY. 


petually from tlic rash and headstrong courage of their native 
leaders and their own indifference to the usual duties which be- 
long to a vigilant and cautious command. The enterprise which 
moved Greene to reconduct the continentals and the southern 
militia, back to South Carolina, then wholly in the possession 
of the British, has been described as singularly bold and auda- 
cious. But how he could have achieved the deliverance of the 
country, without pressing into it, we do not see. To enter the 
disputed province, to seek, find, and fight his enemy, was the 
very business for which he had been despatched, and the only 
question is as to the conduct which he should display, in con- 
trast with that of Gates. His true merit lay in the prudence 
with which he prosecuted an enterprise, which the latter had 
sacrificed by conceit and improvidence. The genius of Greene 
was eminently cautious, and his progress in South Carolina was 
unmarked by any rashness of movement, or extravagance of 
design. He was very soon made conscious that, with the mere 
fragments of an army — and such an army! — naked men, un- 
drilled militia, few in number, disheartened by defeat, unpro- 
vided with arms — he could hope for nothing but disaster, unless 
through the exercise of that ever-watchful thought, and rigorous 
prudence, by which, almost wholly, the great captain is distin 
guished. His wariness formed an essential part of his resolu 
tion, and quite as much as his valor, contributed to effect his 
object. If bo did not always beat, he at length succeeded in 
finally baffling his opponents. He avoided the conflict which 
the more presumptuous Gates had too rashly invited. To baffle 
the invader, he well knew, was the best policy bjt which to con- 
quer him. The fatigue of forced marches and frequent alarms 
to the soldier, in an unknown and hostile country, is more dis- 
couraging than the actual fight with a superior foe. Every 
hour of delay added to the army of Greene while it diminished 
that of the British. The militia recovered breath and courage, 
and once more rallied around the continental standard. Small 
but select bodies of troops came to her aid from the neighboring 
states. North Carolina began to arouse and shake herself free 
from her slumbers. Her yeomen began to feel the shame of 
previous flight and inaction. Virginia, though scarcely so active 

i* 


THE SCOUT. 


as her own safety and sense of duty should have made, her, was 
not altogether indifferent to the earnest entreaties for assistance 
of the general of the south ; and from Maryland and Delaware 
came a band, few but fearless, and surpassed by none of all the 
troops that wen ever raised in America. The tried and tough 
natives of the mountains and the swamps emerged once more 
from their hiding-places under their ancient leaders ; more reso- 
lute in the cause of liberty, and more vigorous in their labors 
for its attainment, from the shame and the sorrow which fol- 
'owed their previous and frequent disappointments. 

The countenance of the British commander became troubled 
as he surveyed the gathering aspects of evil in that horizon, 
from which he fondly fancied that he had banished 6very cloud. 
His troops were summoned to arms and to renewed activity ; 
and Greene was no longer in a condition to elqde the* arms of 
his adversary. Nor did he now so much desire it. The acces- 
sions of force which his army had received, and which drew 
upon him the regards of Lord Cornwallis, had necessarily en- 
couraged the American general, and inspirited his purposes. 
His policy, though still properly cautious, lost something of its 
seeming timidity; and he boldly penetrated, in the face of the 
foe, into the state which he came to deliver. A series of small 
and indecisive, but brilliant adventures, which followed the dis- 
persion of his light troops over the country, contributed equally 
to enliven the hopes of the commander and the courage of his 
men. rhe battle of King’s Mountain had been fought by the 
brave mountaineers of Virginia, and the two Carolinas, in which 
the British force under Ferguson — their ablest partisan com- 
mander in the south — was utterly annihilated. Tarleton, hith- 
erto invincible, was beaten by Morgan at the Cowpens, with a 
vastly inferior army; while Marion, smiting. the torics, hip and 
thigh, in the swamps below, and Sumter, in a succession of 
brilliant and rapid actions, in the middle country, had para- 
lyzed the activity and impaired seriously the strength of those 
smaller parties of the British, which were employed to overawe 
the inhabitants and secure the conquests which had been already 
made. In an inconceivably short space of time, the aspect of 
things in South Carolina underwent a change. The panic which 


HISTORICAL SUMMARY. 


II 


’ followed tlie defeat of Gates, had worn off. Disaffection so 
effectually showed itself in every section of the state, that the 
British power was found active and operative only in those portions 
where they held strong garrisons. Greene, however, while these 
events were passing, was kept sufficiently employed b} r the able cap- 
tains who opposed him. Brought to action at Guilford, he was 
forced, rather than beaten, from the field; and a few days en- 
abled him to turn upon his pursuer, and to dog his flight from the 
state which he could not keep, to that in which he became a cap- 
tive. • 

But,, in leaving Carolina, Cornwallis left the interests of his 
master in the custody of no inferior representative. Lord Raw T don, 
afterward the earl of Moira, succeeded him in the command. He 
was unquestionably one of the ablest general officers of tbe British 
army; and through a protracted trial of strength with his opponent, 
he sustained the duties of his trust with equal skill, vigilance, and 
valor. The descent of Greene into South Carolina, brought 
him intp that same neighborhood which had proved so fatal 
to Gates. His appearance was followed by the sharp action of 
Hobkirk’s Hill, in which Rawdon displayed many of those 
essential qualities of conduct 'which entitled him to the name of 
an able soldier. The field remained with the British, but it yielded 
them none but barren fruits. It gave them the triumph, but not 
the success. The victory was only not with Greene. It must 
have been, but for a misapprehension of his orders, on the part of 
one of his best officers, having commpfad of a favorite regi- 
ment.” 

Our story opens at this period. The battle of Hobkirk’s Hill 
was productive of effects upon both of the contending parties, 
which brought about an equal crisis in their fortunes. The 
losses of the two armies on that occasion were nearly the same. 
But, in the case of Rawdon, the country offered but few re- 
sources against any external pressure; and immediate and utter 
ruin must have followed his defeat. He. had exhausted the 
means, ravaged the fields, trampled upon the feelings, and 
mocked the entreaties of the surrounding inhabitants. Despair 
had taught them a spirit of defiance and the appearance of an 
American army which was able to maintain its ground even 


THE SCOUT. 


12 

after defeat, encouraged them to give to that feeling its proper 
utterance. 

Conwallis had long before complained to the British ministry 
that he was “ surrounded by timid friends and inveterate foes 
and the diminution of British strength and courage, which ne- 
cessarily followed the flight of that commander into Virginia, to- 
gether with the defeats sustained at Cowpens and King’s Mount- 
ain, naturally enough increased the timidity of the one, and the 
inveteracy of the other party. That atrocious and reckless war- 
fare between the Avhigs and tones, which had deluged the fair 
plains of Carolina with native blood, was now at its height. 
The parties, in the language of General Greene, pursued each 
other like wild beasts. Pity seemed utterly banished from their 
bosoms. Neither sex nor age was secure. Murder lurked upon 
the threshold, and conflagration lighted up, with the blazing fires 
of ruin, the still, dark hours of midnight. The reckless brutality 
of the invader furnished a sufficient example and provocation to 
these atrocities ; and the experience of ages has shown that hate 
never yet takes a form so hellish, as when it displays itself in 
the strifes of kindred. 

1 1 does not need that we should inquire, at this late day, what 
were the causes that led to this division among a people, in that 
hour so unseasonably chosen for civil strife — the hour of foreign 
invasion. It is sufficient for our present purpose that the fact, 
however lamentable, is equally unquestionable and well known. 
Our narrative seeks to illustrate some of the events which grew 
out of, and characterized, this warfare. We shall be compelled 
to display, along with its virtues of courage, patriotism, and 
endurance, some of its crimes and horrors ! Yet vainly, as 
unwisely, would we desire to depict, in human language, its 
measureless atrocities. The heart would sicken, the mind revolt 
with loathing, at those hideous details, in which the actors seem 
to have studiously set themselves free from all the restraints of 
humanity. To burn and slay were not the simple performances 
of this reckless period and ravaged country. To burn in wan- 
tonness, and to murder in cold blood, and by the cruellest tor- 
tures, were the familiar achievements of the time; — and the 
criminal was too frequently found to exult over his evil deeds. 


THE SWAMP RETREAT. 


15 


ffith he sanguinary enthusiasm of the Mohawk warrur, even 
tnmgli the avenging retribution stood beside him with warning 
finger and uplifted knife. The face of the country was overrun 
by outlaws. Detached bands of ruffians, formed upon the fim 
tiers of Georgia, and in the wilds of Florida — refugees from all 
the colonies — availed themselves of the absence of civil author 
ity to effect a lodgment in the swamps, the forests, and the 
mountains. These, mounted on fleet horses, traversed the state 
with the wind ; now here, now there ; one moment operating on 
the Savannah, the next on the Peedee ; sometimes descending 
within sight of the smokes of the metropolis ; and anon, building 
their own fires on the lofty summits of the Apalachian ridge. 

Harassed by the predatory inroads of these outlawed squad- 
ons, stung by their insults, and maddened by their enormities, 
the more civil and suffering inhabitants gathered in little bands 
for their overthrow ; and South Carolina, at the period of our 
narrative, presented the terrible spectacle of an entire people in 
arms, and hourly engaging in the most sanguinary conflicts. 
The district of country called “Ninety-Six,” in the neighbor- 
hood of which our story will partly lie, is estimated to have had 
within its borders, at the close of the Revolution, no less than 
fifteen hundred widows and orphan 0 made so during its progress. 
Despair seems to have blinded the me party as effectually to 
the atrocity of their deeds, as that drunkenness of heart, which 
follows upon long-continued success, had made insensible the 
other ; — and as that hour is said to be the darkest which more 
immediately precedes the dawn, so was that the bloodiest in tlit 
fortunes of Carolina which ushered in the bright day of her de- 
liverance. We now proceed with our narrative. 

The dusky shadows of evening were approaching fast. 
Clouds, black with storm, that threatened momently to dis- 
charge their torrents, depended gloomily above the bosom of the 
Wateree. A deathlike stillness overhung the scene. The very 
breezes that had swayed the tops of the tall cypresses, and 
sported capriciously with the purple berries of the green vines 
that decorated them, had at length folded themselves up to 
slumber on the dark surface of the sluggish swamps below. N. 
voice of bird or i^t. no word of man, denoted, in that ghonfc 


14 


THE SCOUT. 


like region, the presence of any form of life. Nothing in its as* 
pccts, certainly, co«ld persuade the casual wayfarer to suspect 
that a single human heart heat within those wild and dark re- 
cesses. Gloomy, and dense, and dim, at all seasons, the very 
tribute of the spring in this — the generous gifts of flowers and 
fiT.it age — only served to increase the depth of its shadow in the 
rank exuberance of its vegetable life. The vines, and shrubs, 
and briers, massed themselves together in an almost solid wall 
upon its edge, and forbade to penetrate ; and even where, 
through temporary vistas, the eye obtained a passage beyond 
this formidable barrier, the dismal lakes which it encountered — 
still and black — filled with the decayed trunks of past centu- 
ries, and surmounted by towering ranks of trees yet in the vigor 
of their growth, defied the examination or the curious, and 
seemed to rebuke, with frowning and threatening shadows, even 
the presumption of a search. 

But, in the perilous times of our history, these seeming dis- 
couragements served the kindly purposes of security and shel- 
ter. The swamps of Carolina furnished a place of refuge to the 
patriot and fugitive, when the dwelling and the temple yielded 
none. The more dense the wall of briers upon the edge of the 
swamp, the more dismal the avenues within, the more acceptable 
to those who, preferring Liberty over all things, could there build 
her altars and tend her sacred fires, without being betrayed by 
their smokes. The scene to which our eyes have been ad- 
dressed, still and deathlike as it appears, is full of life — of hearts 
that beat with hope, and spirits that burn with animation ; and 
Midden, even as we gaze, the sluggish waters of the lake are 
rippling into tiny waves that betray the onward motion of some 
unwonted burden. In the moment of its deepest silence, a rust- 
ling is heard among the green vines and crowding foliage. A 
gentle strife takes place between the broken waters and the 
rude trunks of the cypresses ; and the prow of an Indian canoe 
shoots suddenly through the tangled masses, and approaches the 
silent shore. There is no woid — no voice. A single person 
stands upright in the centre of the little vessel and guides it in 
its forward progress through the still lagune. Yet no dip of oar, 
no stroke of paddle betrays his efforts, and impairs the solemn 


THE SWAMP RETREAT. 


16 


silence of the scene. His canoe speeds along as noiselessly and 
with as little effort, as did that fairy bark of Phsedria sung by 
Spenser, which carried Sir Guyon over the Idle lake to the 
Enchanted island : — 

“ Withouten oare or pilot It to guide, 

Or winged canvass with the wind to fly.” 

The navigator of our little canoe is indebted for her progress 
to no magical “pin,” such as impelled the vessel of Phsedria and 
obeyed the least touch of that laughing enchantress. Still, the 
instrument which he employed, if less magical in its origin, was 
quite as simple in its use. It called for almost as little exertion 
of his arm. His wand of power was an ordinary cane, nearly 
twenty feet in length, the vigorous growth of the swamp around 
him, to the slender extremity of which, a hook, or finger, was 
fastened, formed out of the forked branches of some stubborn 
hickory ; one prong being tightly bound to the reed, by deer- 
sinews, while the other was left free, to take hold of the over- 
hanging limbs of trees, or the waving folds of wandering vines 
or shrubs, impelling the bark forward in any direction, according 
to the will of the navigator. It was thus that our new acquaint- 
ance brought his “ dugout” forward to the shore from the secret 
recesses of the Wateree swamp. Its yellow waters parted, with- 
out a murmur, before his prow, at the slightest touch of this sim- 
ple agent ; and the obedient fabric which it impelled with a 
corresponding flexibility, yielding itself readily, shot from side 
to side, through the sinuous avenues of the swamp, as if endued 
with a consciousness and impulse of its own; pressing along in 
silence and in shadow; now darting freely forward where the 
stream widened into little lakelets ; now buried in masses of the 
thicket, so dense and low, that the steersman was compelled to 
sink upon his knees in order to pass beneath the green umbra- 
geous arches. 

In such a progress the scene was not without its romance. 
Picturesque as was this mode of journeying, it had its concomi- 
tants by which it was rendered yet more so. The instrument 
which impelled the vessel, drew down to the hand of the steers- 
man the massy vines of the thousand varieties of wild grape 
with which the middle country of Carolina is literally covered. 


16 


THE SCOUT. 


These fling themselves with the wind in which they swing and 
sport, arching themselves from tree to tree, and interlacing their 
green tresses until the earth below becomes a stranger to the 
sun. Their blue clusters droop to the hand, and hang around 
the brows of the fainting and feeble partisan, returning from the 
conflict. He forgets the cruelties of his fellow man, in solacing 
himself with the grateful tributes which are yielded him by the 
bounteous nature. Their fruits relieve his hunger and quench 
his thirst — their green leaves refresh his eye — their shadows 
protect him from the burning sunbeams, and conceal him from 
the pursuit of the foe. 

Dark, wild, and unlovely as the entrance of the swamp might 
seem, still, to the musing heart and contemplative spirit it had 
its aspects of beauty, if not of brightness ; and, regarded through 
the moral medium as a place of refuge to the virtuous and the 
good, when lovelier spots afforded none, it rises at once before 
the mind, into an object of sacred and serene delight. Its mys- 
terious outlets, its Druid-like nooks, its little islands of repose, 
its solemn groves, and their adorning parasites, which clamber 
up and cling to its slender columns a hundred feet in air, fling- 
ing abroad their tendrils, laden with flaunting blossoms and 
purple berries — all combined to present a picture of strange 
but harmonious combination, to which the youthful steersman 
who guides our little bark is evidently not insensible. He 
pauses at moments in favorite spots, and his large blue eye 
seems to dilate as, looking upward, he catches some bright, but 
far and foreign glimpses of the heavens, through the raggec 
openings in the umbrageous forest. While he thus gazes up 
ward, seemingly forgetful of the present in the remote, we may 
observe him at our leisure. 

His was a countenance to invite and reward examination. 
Were the features of the face sure indices always of the indi- 
vidual character — which we do not believe — those of the per- 
son now before us would not misbeseem those of a great land- 
scape painter. Could we suppose that the season and region of 
which we write were favorable to such employments, --a might 
well suspect him of being a travelling artist. The calm, yet 
*eep contemplative eye ; the upward, outward look ; the waD 


JHE SWAMP RETREAT . 


17 


iering mood ; tlie air of revery ; tlie delicate mouth ; the arch- 
ing brow; — these, and other characteristics which are indefi 
nable, would seem to indicate in the proprietor a large taste foi 
the picturesque. Yet was there a something still about the 
stranger that declared, quite as strongly, for a stern decision of 
temper, a direct aim, an energetic will, and a prompt and rapid 
execution of his purposes. It would not, indeed, be altogethei 
safe to say, that, when he paused in his progress through the 
swamp, it was not because of some more serious purpose than 
belonged to a desire to contemplate the picturesque in its aspects. 
A just caution, the result of that severe experience which the 
Carolinians had suffered in the beginning of their conflict with 
the mother-country, may have prompted him to wai and watch, 
and listen, long before he approached the land. His movements 
were all marked by the vigilance of one who was fully conscious 
of the near neighborhood of danger. Before his vessel could 
emerge from the covert, and when a single moment would have 
thrust her against the shore, he grasped with his hook a swing- 
ing vine which he had already left behind him, and arrested her 
motion. His boat swung lightly upon her centre, and remained 
stationary for a brief instant, while, drawing from his vest a 
small whistle, made of the common reed, he uttered a clear, 
merry note, which went, waking up a hundred echoes, through 
the still recesses of the swamp. Ilis whistle, thrice repeated, 
brought him as many faint responses from the foot of the hills 
to which he was approaching. As if assured by these replies, 
our steersman threw up his cane once more, grappled with a 
bough beyond him, gave a single pull, and the bark shot forward. 
A mass of vines and overhanging branches, almost reaching to 
the water, lay between him and the spot of shore to which his 
prow was directed. As he neared this barrier, he threw himself 
flat in his boat, and she passed under it like an arrow, rush.ng 
up, in the next moment, upon the gravelly shore. He leaped 
instantly upon the bank, drew the canoe forward to the sheltei 
of a clump of bushes growing down to tlie water, and fastened 
her securely, and out of sight. Another whistle from the wooded 
hills above now seemed to indicate the route which he should 
take ; and, promptly following where it led, he was soon joined 


t 


. * 


[8 


THE SCOUT. 


by one wno appeared to have been calmly expecting Ins appear 
ance. A description of the two thus meeting, with such a 
clew to tlieir objects as may seem proper to be given *t this 
early period m our progress, may well be reserved for another 
chapter. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE FRIENDS A CONFERENCE. 

The stranger, as he leaped upon the solid earth, appeared of 
a noble and commanding presence. In shape he was symmet- 
rically and vigorously made. Tall, erect, and muscular, his 
person was that of one who had been long accustomed to hardy 
and active exercises. In his movements there was a confident 
ease — the result equally of a fearless spirit and a noble form — 
which tallied well with a certain military exactness of carriage ; 
commending his well-finished limbs to the eye, while conveying 
to the mind of the observer an impression, not less favorable, of 
the noble and firm character of their proprietor. Nor were the 
features of his countenance wanting in anything which was 
needful to support this impression. His face was full, but not 
fleshy ; the skin of a clear red and white, which the summer sun 
had simply darkened into manliness. His eye, of a lively and 
intelligent blue, might have denoted a rather preponderating 
playfulness of temper, but for the sterner expression of his 
mouth, the lines of which were more angular than round, the 
lips being too thin for softness, and, when compressed, indicating 
a severe directness of purpose, which the gentler expression of 
his other features failed entirely to qualify. He had a lofty 
forehead, broad, intellectual and contemplative. His hair, which 
was of a dark brown, was long, and, like his beard, had been 
suffered to remain untrimmed, possibly as much in compliance 
with the laws of necessity as of taste. We have already inti- 
mated that the stranger was youthful. He had probably beheld 


THE FRIENDS — A CONFERENCE. 


19 


some twenty-five or thirty summers, though it may he that 
premature toils and trials had anticipated the work of time, and 
made him seem somewhat older than he really was. He had, 
ii; the tout ensemble of his face, the appearance of one who had 
j arrived at the equal maturity of mind and body. 

H is dress was simple, and characterized by as little pretension 
as could possibly he found in one who was not only young, but 
evidently in the military. In its material and make it corre- 
sponded with that of the ordinary woodmen of the country. His 
pantaloons consisted of a dark blue homespun, the legs being 
wrapped in leggings of a somewhat coarser texture and darker 
hue. From these the original dye had been obliterated in 
blotches, here and there ; or so obscured by stains from the yel- 
. low waters of the swamp, with which the wearer had been so 
recently familiar, that it would require a very discriminating eye 
to determine at a glance of what color they originally were. A 
hunting-shirt of a deeper blue than that of his under clothes, and 
perhaps of better material, which reached midway between his 
hips and knees, completed the essential parts of his costume. 
This portion of the dress was evidently made with some regard 
to the shape, and, possibly, the tastes of the wearer; a matter 
not so certainly clear in the case of the pantaloons. It fitted 
closely, without a wrinkle, and displayed the symmetry and 
muscle of his form to the greatest possible advantage. It had 
been ornamented, it would seem, in better days, with a deep 
fringe of a color somewhat more showy than that of the gar- 
ment ; but of this only a few occasional traces now remained, 
to testify, mucli more effectually, to the trials through which it 
had passed, than its own former brightness and integrity. The 
little cape which suimounted the coat, and fell back upon the 
shoulders, had fared rather more fortunately than the rest of 
the garment, and formed no unseemly finish to the general fit- 
ness of the costume ; particularly as the wearer, with a better 
taste than prevailed then, or has prevailed since, had freed his 
neck from all the buckram restraints of gorget, cravat, or stock 
— bandages which fetter the movements of the head, without 
increasing its dignity or comfort. Enough of the broad sun- 
burned bosom was revealed by the open shirt in front, to display 


20 


THE SCOUT. 


that classic superiority of air of which modern fashions almost 
wholly deprive the noblest aspect. Upon his head, without 
shading his brow, rested a cap of otter-skin, rude and ample in 
its make, the work, most probably, of some favorite slave. A 
small yellow crescent, serving the purpose of a button, looped 
up one of the sides in the centre, and might, on occasion, have 
sustained a feather. Plain moccasins of buckskin, the original 
yellow of which had been entirely lost in the more doubtful 
colors acquired in the swamp, completed the externals of his 
dress. It maybe added that he wore no visible armor; but 
once, as he stooped to fasten his skiff beside the shore, the butt 
of a heavy pistol might have been seen protruding from beneath 
the thick folds of his hunting-shirt. From the unnatural fullness 
of the opposite breast, it would not be rash to conjecture that 
this weapon of war was not without its fellow. 

The stranger ascended from the banks and made his way toward 
the foot of the heights, that, skirting the northern edges of the 
Wateree, conduct the eye of the spectator to the lofty summits 
of the Santee hills beyond. Here he was joined by the person, 
whose answering signal he had heard, and, who had evidently 
been for some time expecting him. This was a man of middle 
size, stout, well-made, coarse in feature, strong of limb, active 
of movement, apparently without the refining influences of society 
and education, and evidently from the lower orders of the people. 
Let not this phrase, however, be understood to signify anything 
base or unbecoming. Though a poor man, our new acquaintance 
was not the work of one of nature’s journeymen, fashioned when 
the “ master hand” was weary. With head and feet equally 
bare, he carried the one with a virtuous erectness that could not be 
well misunderstood; while the other were set down with the 
freedom and fearlessness of a man conscious that he walked the 
soil of his native land in the full performance of the equal duties 
of the patriot and warrior. In this hand h^ grasped a rifle of 
immoderate length, the fractured stock of which, lashed togethei 
with buckskin thongs, bore tokens of hard usage in more respects 
than one. 

The unquestionable poverty of this man’s condition — which, 
mdr^d, was that of the whole American army — did ,un ,.*em 


THE FRIENDS — A CONFERENCE. 


21 


to have any effect upon his deportment or to give him any un- 
easiness. He seemed not fo know that his garments suffered 
from any peculiar deficiencies ; and never did the language of a 
light heart declare itself with so little reservation from a blue 
eye and a good-natured physiognomy. The slight cloud of anx- 
iety which hung at moments above his brow, and which gather- 
ed there in consequence of cares of no ordinary kind, could not 
long, at any time, withstand the buoyant action of the cheerful 
spirit within. This constantly shone out from his face, and 
spoke aloud in the clear, ringing tones of his manly and not 
unmusical accents. Drawing nigh to our first acquaintance, he 
grasped his hand with the joyous look in a warm manner of one 
who felt, in the meeting with his comrade, something of a senti- 
ment far stronger than that which governs the ordinary friend- 
ships among men. Nor was the manner of his comrade less 
decided, though, perhaps, more quiet and subdued. The be- 
havior of the twain was that of an intimacy unbroken from 
boyhood, and made mutually confident by the exercise of trusts 
which had been kept equally sacred by both the parties. 

“ Well, Clarence, I’am glad you’ve come. I’ve been waiting 
for you a’most two hours. And how goes it in the swamp — 
and did you git the letters ?” 

“ I did : all’s well with us — pretty much as when you left 
But how with you, Jack ? What news do you bring ? Is the 
coast clear — have the light troops gone in?” 

“Well, I reckon I may say yes. Greene’s drawed off from 
Camden sence the brush at Hobkirk’s, and there’s no telling 
jest now which way he’s going. As for Marion, you know its 
never easy to say where to look for him. Lee’s gone down on 
the s’arch somewhere below, and we’re all to be up and busy at 
short notice. I hear tell of great things to do. Our gin’ral, 
Sumter, is in motion, and picking up stragglers along the Cataw- 
ba. I reckon he’ll soon be down, and then gallop’s the word. 
Something too I hear, of Colonel Tom Taylor at Granby, and — »*' 

“ Enough, enough, Jack ; but you say nothing of Butler ana 
his men? Are they out of the way — are they off? If you 
know nothing about him — ” 

“ Well, I reckon the3 r ’re at Granby by this time. They’ve 


:i2 


THE SCOUT. 


given up the mint as a bad job. I saw Joe Clinch, one of his 
troop, only two days ago, and gin him a sort of hint that the 
chap they were after was more like to be found above the 
Congaree than in these parts. * For what’s to save him,’ I said 
to Joe, ‘ down here in this neighborhood, where we’re all true 
bine, and he a firehot tory V That was a good reason for 
Clinch and all 1 is troop, I reckon. They tuk it for one, and by 
peep of dawn, they were streaking it along the river road. 
They’ve got to ‘ Ninety-Six,’ by this time, and even if they 
ha’n’t, it’s all the same to us. They’re out of your way.” 

“ But you did wrong, John Bannister, in saying that Edward 
Conway was a tory. He himself denies it.” 

“ Well, Clarence, that’s true, but I don’t see that his deny- 
ing it makes much difference. It’s natural enough that a man 
should say lie’s no tory when he’s in a whig camp. The vartue 
of a whole skin depends upon it. There’s a chance of broken 
bones if he says otherwise, which Ned Conway ain’t a going to 
*esk.” 

“At least, for my sake, John Bannister, give Edward Conway 
the benefit of your doubts,” replied the other, with an expression 
of grave displeasure on his countenance. “We do not know 
that he is a tory, and the best of men have been the victims of 
unjust suspicion. I must repeat that you did wrong, if you loved 
me, in calling him by such a name.” 

“ All, Clarence, lie’s your liafe-brother, and that’s the reason 
you ain’t willing to believe anything agin him ; but I’m dub’ous 
I said nothing worse than the truth when I told Clinch he was 
a tory. I’m sure the proofs agin him would have hung up many 
a tall chap like himself.” 

“No more, Jack Bannister — no more,” said the other, gloom- 
ily. “ It is enough that he is my brother. I am not willing 
to examine his demerits. I know, and acknowledge to you, 
that many things in his conduct look suspicious ; still 1 prefer 
to believe his word — his solemn oath — against all idle reports — 
reports, which are half the time slanders, and which have de- 
stroyed, I verily believe, many lives and characters as worthy 
-•as oui own. You know that I have no reason to love Edward 
Jonway. We have never been friends, and I have m partialities 


I’HE FRIENDS — A CONFERENCE. 


23 


in bin favor. Still, lie is tlie son of my father, and I am bound 
to defend him while I remain unconvinced of his treachery. I 
am only afraid that I am too willing to believe what is said in 
his prejudice. But this I will not believe so long as I can help 
it. lie solemnly assures me he has never joined the tories. lie 
would scarcely swear to a falsehood.” 

“Well, that’s the same question, Clarence, only in another 
language. The man that would act a lie, wouldn’t stop very 
long to swear to one. Now, if Edward Conway didn’t jine the 
tories, who did he jine ? He didn’t jine us, did he ? Did he 
swear to that, Clarence ?” 

“ No ! no ! Would to God he could !” 

“Well, then, what is it that ho does say? I’m a- thinking 
that it’s good doctrine to believe, in times like these, that the 
man that ain’t with us is agin us. Let him show what he did 
with himself sence the fall of Charleston. He warn’t there. You 
don’t see his name on the list of prisoners — you don’t hear of 
his parole, and you know he’s never been exchanged. It 
mought be that he went in the British regiments to the West 
Indies, where they carried a smart chance of our people, that 
wouldn’t ha’ got any worse character by taking to the swamps 
as we did. Does he say that he went there ?” 

“He does not — he declines giving any account of himself; 
but still denies, most solemnly, that he ever joined the tories.” 

“ I’m miglitly afeard, Clarence — now, don’t be angry at what 
I’m a-going to say — but I’m miglitly afeard Edward Conway 
ain’t telling you the truth. I wouldn’t let him go free — I’d 
hold him as a sort of prisoner and keep watch upon him. You’ve 
saved him when he didn’t desarve to be saved by anybody, and 
least of all by you ; — and you have a sort of nateral right to do 
with him jest as you think proper and reasonable. I’m for your 
keeping him, like any other prisoner, and counting him in at the 
next exchange. He’ll go for somebody that’ll pull trigger for 
liis country.” 

“ Impossible ! How can you give me such counsel ? No, no, 
Jack, let him be all that you think him, the tory and the traitor, 
still he comes from my father’s loins, and though another mother 
gave us suck, yet I feel that I should defend him as a brother, 




THE SCOUT. 


though ho may not be altogether one. Tie shall suffer no harm 
at hands of mine.” 

“Well, I’m sure I don’t say he ought. To keep him under 
a strong thumb and forefinger — to keep him, as I may say, 
out of mischief and out of danger till the time of exchange 
comes round, won’t be to do birr, any harm. It’s only one way 
of feeding a mouth that, mought be, couldn’t feed itself so well 
in these tough times ; and taking a little Jamaica from other 
mouths that mought like it jest as well, and desarve it a great 
deal better.” 

“ What, Jack, do you begrudge Edward Conway the pitifu. 
fare which we can give him in the swamp ? You are strangely 
altered, Jack, toward him. You were once his playmate in boy 
hood as well as mine.” 

“ Yes, Clarence, and ’twas then, so far back as them same 
days of our boyhood — and they were mighty sweet days, too, 1 
tell you — that I found him out, and l’arnea to mistrust him 
God knows, Clarence, and you ought to know too, that Jack^, 
Bannister would like, if he could, all the flesh and blood in this 
world that was ever a kin to yoin’n. I tried mighty hard tcT 
love Ned Conway as I loved you, but it was like righting agin 
natur’. I tried my best, but couldn't make it out with ill my 
trying; and when I caught him in that business of the deck 
tailed horse — ” 

“ Do not remind me of these lh /. tevs, now, J ?*Vm afraid 
1 remember them too well already .” 

“ You’re only too good for him, Clarence. I somehow almost 
think he ain’t naterally even a half-brother of your n any how 
You don’t look like him; neither ere, nor mouth, nor nose, nor 
chin, nor hair, nor forehead — all’s different as ef you. lia’d come 
from any two families that lived at opposite eends of the river, 
and never seed one another. But, as you say, I won’t ’mind you 
of any matters that you don’t want to hear about. Them days is 
over with me, and with him ; and so I’ll shut up on that subject 
As for begrudging him the bread and bacon, and the drop of Ja- 
maica, sich as we git in the swamp yonder — well, I won’t say 
jothing, because, you see, I can’t somehow think you meant to 
*ay what you did. All that I do say, Clarence, is, that I wish l 


THE FRIENDS — A CONFERENCE. 


26 

had enough to give him that would persuade him to show clean 
hands to his friends and blood-kin, and come out for his conntry, 
lik« every man that has a man’s love for the airth that raised 
him.” 

“ I know you mean him no wrong, Jack, and me no pain 
when j^ou advise me thus ; but my word is pledged to Edward 
Conway, and I will keep it, though I perish.” 

“And don’t I tdl you to keep it, Clarence? You promised 
to save him from Butler’s men, that was a-lninting him ; and 
what better way than to keep him close from sight; for, if he 
once gits a-going agin, an l they find his tracks, it won’t be your 
boldness or my quickness that’ll git him into the swamp so 
easily. If Butler’s men hadn’t been up-countrymen, that didn’t 
onderstand swamp edication, no how, he wouldn’t have had such 
a quiet time of it where we put him. Well, you’ve done what 
you promised, and what, I reckon, oveiy man was bound to do 
by his blood-kin. You’ve saved him from his inemies ; but 
there’s no need you should give him your best nag that he may 
gallop full-speed into their pastures. Now, that’s what you’re 
a-thinking to do. And why should you ? If he ain’t a tory, and 
hasn’t been one, why shouldn’t he be a whig ? Why shouldn’t 
he do what he ought to ha’ done five years ago — jine Sumter’s 
men, or Marion’s men, or Pickins’ men, or any men that’s up 
for the country — and run his bullets with a tory’s name to 
each ? I don’t think Ned Conway a coward, no how, and when 
he won’t come out for his country, at a pushing time like this, I 
can’t help considering him a mighty suspicious friend.” 

“ Enough, Jack ; the more you speak, and I think, of this 
matter, the more unhappy it makes me,” replied the other. “ It 
I dared to think, I should probably come to more serious con- 
clusions than yourself on the subject of my brother’s conduct 
which, I confess is altogether inscrutable. I have only one 
course before me, and that is to set him free, even as he desires, 
and let him choose his i.wn'route hence forward. I have not 
spared argument to persuade him to our ranks, and he holds out 
some hopes to me, that when he has finished certain private 
business he will do so.” 

‘Private business! Lord ha’ mercy upon us! How can a 


2tf 


i'HE SCOUT. 


body talk of private business, when throat- cutting is so public? 
— When there’s a sort of Injin bounty for sculps, and it takes 
more than a man’s two hands to keep his own skin and teeth 
from going off, where they are worth tlmir weight in gold ? Pri- 
vate business Look you, Clarence, did you think to ask him 
when he had last seen Miss Flora Middleton ? 

“ No, I did i ot,” returned the other, abruptly, and with soma 
unpatience in his manner. “ Why should I ask him that ? I 
bad no reason to suppose that he had any particular reason for 
•eeing her at this, or at any other time ’ 

“ Now, Clarence, you needn’t be tel bug me that, when I know 
so much better. I know that if be hasn’t a reason for seeing 
her, lie’s always had ' mighty strong wish that way ; and as for 
j our own feelin’s, Lv>rd bless you, Clarence, it’s no fault of 
your’n, if every second man in the legiment don’t know the soft 
place in the colonel’s heart by this time, and can’t put his finger 
on it whenever he pleases If you love Flora Middleton there’s 
no harm in it ; and if F 'ward Conway loves her too — ” 

lie paused, and lo ked at his companion with the air of one 
who is doubtful of the efiect of that which he has already said. 

* Well ! What then ?” demanded the other. 

“ Why, only, there’s no harm, perhaps, in that either.” 

“ Ay, but there is, John Bannister, and you know it;” cried 
the other, almost fiercely. “ Edward Coirway knew that I 
loved Flora Mi ldleton long before he had ever seen her.” 

“ Very true ; but that’s no good reason why he shouldn’t love 
her when he did see her, Clarence.” 

“ But it is good reason why he should not seek her with his 
love.” 

“ I reckon, Clarence, he don’t much stand upon such a rea 
son. There’s nothing brotherly in love matters, Clarence ; and 
even if there was, Ned Conway is about the last person to 
make much count of it.” 

“He docs — he shall! Nay, on this point I have his assu- 
rance. He tells me that he has not sought her — he has not 
seen her for months.” 

“And did Edward Conway really tell you so, Clarence?” 

. u He did —it was almost his last assurance when I left him/ 1 


TUh Mi.' tJNDS — A 


ON c’ERENCii 


27 


“ Then lie told you a most despisable an abominable iie. 
He nas seen her within the last three weeks.” 

“ Ha ! how know you ?” 

“ From little Joe, the blacksmith, that was down by Watson’s 
before it was taken from the British. Little Joe went with him 
ro Brier Park, and saw him and Miss Flora in the piazza to 
getlier.” 

The young man clutched the butt of the pistol in his bosom 
with a convulsive grasp, but soon relaxed it. He struck his 
forehead, the next moment, with his open palm, then strode 
away, from his companion, as if to conceal the emotion which ho 
could not so easily overcome. 

“Well,” he exclaimed, returning, “I had a strai ge fear — 1 
know not why — that there was something insincere in his as- 
surance. He made it volm tarily — we had not named her — 
and even as he spoke, there was a something in his face wlii* > 
troubled me, and made n.e doubtful of his truth. But he will go 
too far — he will try the force of blood beyond its patience.” 

“ There’s nothing, Clarence, in the shape of licking that sich 
a person don’t desarve. I followed out more of his crooks than 
one, years ago, when there was no war ; and he had all the 
tricks of a tory even then.” 

“ That he should basely lie to me, and at such a moment! 
When I had risked life to save him ! — When ! — but let me not 
grow foolish. Enough, that I know him and suspect him. He 
shall find that I know him. He shall see that he can not again 
vheat me with loving language and a Judas kiss.” 

“Ah, Clarence, but you can cheat yourself. He knows how 
[uick you are to believe; and when he puts on them sweet 
looks, and talks so many smooth words, and makes b’lieve he’s 
all humility, and how sorry he is for what he’s done, and how 
willing he is to do better — and all ho wants is a little time — as if 
ever a man wanted time to get honest in ! Look you, Clarence, 
you’re my colonel, and what’s more, I’m your friend — you know 
I love you, Clarence, better than one man ever loved another, 
and jest as well as Jonathan ever loved David, as we read in 
the good book ; but. with all my love for you, Clarence, d — n 
my splinters, if you ,'et Ned Conway cheat you an y longer with 


28 


THE SCOUT. 


his sweet words and sugar promises, I'll cut loose from you with 
a jerk that’ll tear every j’int out of the socket. I won’t be the 
friend of no man that lets himself he cheated. As for hating 
Ned Conway, as you sometimes say I do, there, I say, you’re 
clean mistaken, I don’t hate him — I mistrust him. I’ve tried 
mighty hard to love him, hut he wouldn’t let me. You know 
how much I’ve done to save him from Butler’s men ; hut I saved 
him on your account, not because I think he desarves to be 
saved. I’m dub’ous that he is a tory, and a rank tory too, if 
the truth was known, jest as they charge it upon him. I’m 
dub’ous he’ll jine the British as soon as he can git a chance ; 
and I’m more than dub’ous, that, if you don’t git before him to 
your mother’s plantation, and run the niggers into the swamp 
out of his reach, he’ll not leave you the hair of one — he’ll have 
’em off to Charleston by some of his fellows, and then to the 
West Injies, before you can sa}*- Jack Robinson, or what’s 
a’most as easy, Jack Bannister. There’s another person I think 
you ought to see about, and that’s Miss Flora. Either you love 
her. or you don’t love her. Now, if you love her, up and at 
her, at once, with all your teeth sot, as if you had said it with 
an oath ; for though I know this ain’t no time to be a-wiving ana 
a-courting, yet, when the varmints is a-prowling about the poul- 
try-yard, it’s no more than sense to look after the speckled pullet. 
Take a fool’s wisdom for once, and have an eye to both eends 
of the road. Go over to the plantation, and when you’re thar’, 
you can steal a chance to cross over to Middleton’s. It’s my 
notion you’ll find Ned Conway at one place or t’other.” 

“ I ’ll think of it,” said Clarence, in subdued tones ; “ mean- 
time, do you take the canoe back to the island and bring him 
out. The horses are in readiness ?” 

“ Yes, behind the hill. I ’ll bring him out if you say so, 
Clarence ; but it ’s not too late to think better of it. He ’s safe, 
for all parties, where he is.” 

“No, no, Jack ; I’ve promised him. I’ll keep my promise. 
Let him go. I fear that he has deceived me. I fear that he 
will still deceive me. Still I will save him from his enemies, 
and suppress my own suspicions. It will be only the worse foi 
him if he doQs me wrong hereafter.” 


THE FRIENDS — A CONFERENCE. 


$» 


• Clarence, if he turns out to be a tory, wliat’ll our men say 
to hear you harbored him V* 

'* Say ! — perhaps, that I am no better.” 

‘•No, no! they can’t say that — they sha’n’t say it, when 
J ack Bannister is nigh enough to hear, and to 6end his hammer 
into the long jaws that talk sich foolishness ; but they ’ll think 
it mighty strange, Clarence.” 

“ Hardly, J ack, when they recollect that he is my father*® 
son.” 

“Ah, Lord, there’s mighty few of us got brothers in these 
times in Carolina. A man’s best brother now-a-days is the 
thing he fights with. His best friend is his rifle. You may call 
his jack-knife a first-cousin, and his two pistols his eldest sons ; 
and even then, there ’s no telling which of them all is going to 
fail him first, or whether any one among ’em will stick by him 
till the scratch is over. Edward Conway, to my thinking, 
Clarence, was never a brother of your’n, if ‘ brother’ has any 
meaning of 1 friend’ in it.” 

“Enough, enough, Jack. Leave me now, and bring him 
forth. I will do what I promised, whatever may be my doubts. 
I will guide him on his way, and with this night’s work acquit 
myself of all obligations to him. When we next meet, it shall 
be on such terms as shall for ever clear up the shadows that 
stand between us. Away, now ! — it will be dark in two hours, 
and we have little time to waste. The storm which threatens 
n 8 will be favorable to his flight.” 


80 


THE SCOUT. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE RETROSPECT THE FUGlTIfB. 

The dialogue between the two friends, which has just l«es. 
given, will convey to the mind of the reader some idea of the 
situation of the parties. We have not aimed to describe the 
manner of this dialogue, preferring infinitely that the interlocu- 
tors should speak entirely for themselves. It may be stated in 
this place, however, that, throughout the interview, the sturdy 
counsellor, whose honest character and warm friendship consti- 
tuted his perfect claim to speak unreservedly to his superior, 
betrayed a dogged determination not to be satisfied with the 
disposition which the latter had resolved to make of one whom 
ho was pleased to consider in some sort a prisoner. On the 
other hand, the younger of the two, whom we have known by 
the name of Clarence Conway, and who held a colonel’s com- 
mand over one of those roving bodies of whig militia, which 
were to be found at this period in every district of the state — 
though resolute to release his brother from the honorable custody 
in which circumstances had placed him — still seemed to regret 
the necessity by which he was prompted to this proceeding. 
There were various feelings contending for mastery in his bosom. 
While he did not. believe in the charges of political treachery 
by Which his half-brother was stigmatized, he was yet anything 
but satisfied that his purposes were politically honest or honor- 
able. Equally dubious with his companion on the subject of 
Edward Conway’s principles, he was yet not prepared to believe 
in the imputation which had been cast upon his performances. 
He suspected him, not of fighting for the enemy, but of the 
meaner and less daring employment, of speculating in Hie 
necessities of the country ; and, in some way or other, of craftily 
availing himself of its miseries and wants, to realize that wealth, 
the passion for which constituted, lie well knew, a leading and 
greedy appetite in the character of his kinsman. 


THE RETROSPECT 


HE PL orlTIVE. 


Si 


Claience Conway was the youngest son of a gentlemen who 
eamc from the West Indies, bringing witli him an only child — 
then an infant — the fruit of a first marriage with a lady of Bar- 
badoes, who died in bringing it into the world. The graceful 
form, pleasing manners, and varied intelligence of this gentle- 
man, gained him the favor of a young lady of the Congaree, who 
became his wife. One son, our hero, was born to this union ; 
and his eyes had scarcely opened upon the light, when his 
father fell a victim to fever, which he caught in consequence of 
some rash exposure among the swamps of the low country. 
The infant, Clarence, became the favorite of his grandparents, 
by whom he was finally adopted. He thus became the heir of 
possessions of a vastness and value infinitely beyond those 
which, by the laws of primogeniture, necessarily accrued to his 
half-brother. 

The anxiety of Edward Conway to be the actual possessor 
of his rights, became so obvious to all eyes, that Mrs. Conway 
yielded him early possession, soon after her husband’s death, 
and retired to one of the plantations which had descended from 
her father to her son. Edward Conway did not long retain the 
estate left him by his father. He was sagacious or fortunate 
enough to sell it, and realize its value in money, before the 
strifes of the Revolution became inevitable. With the conquest 
of Carolina by the British, he almost disappeared from sight ; 
but not until himself and half-brother had already come into 
conflict on grounds which did not involve any reference to the 
politics of the country. This collision between them was of such 
a nature — already hinted at in the previous chapter- — as tc> 
bring into active exercise the anger of the one, and the dissimu- 
lation of the other. To Clarence Conway, therefore, the unfre- 
quent appearance of Edward afforded but little discontent. The 
.ate return of the latter, under circumstances of suspicion — 
under imputations of political treachery, and accusations of crime 
— now bewildered the more frank and passionate youth, who 
lamented nothing half so much as to be compelled to call him 
kinsman. He knew the wilfulness of heart which characterized 
him, and dreaded lest he should abuse, in a respect purely per- 
sonal, the freedom which lie was about to confer upon him. His 


32 


TI1E l3CO r JT. 


own ability to follow, and to watch the object of his suspicions, 
was very limited at this period. His movements were governed 
by his military position, by prudence, and certain other relations 
of a more private nature, which shall be considered as we pro- 
ceed. 

With no such restraints ?? these, and once more safe from the 
dangers which had compelled him to seek shelter at the hands 
of his brother in the swamp, the future conduct of Edward 
Conway filled the mind of Clarence with many apprehensions-, 
the more strongly felt, since his falsehood, in a particular re- 
spect, had been revealed by his companion. There was, as the 
latter had phrased it, a weak or tender spot in the bosom of 
Clarence Conway, which led him to apprehend everything of 
evil, should Edward prove false to certain pledges which he had 
voluntarily made, and proceed to a dishonorable use of his 
liberty. But it was a point of honor with him not to recede 
from his own pledges ; nor to forbear, because of a revival of 
»ld suspicions, the performances to which they had bound him 
Yet, in the brief hour that followed the departure of Jack Ban 
nister, how much would his young commander have given, could 
he have taken his counsel — could he have kept, as a prisoner 
that person whose passions he well knew, and whose dissimula- 
tion he feared. He thus nearly argued himself into the convic- 
tion — not a difficult one at that period — that it was his public 
duty to arrest and arraign, as a criminal to his country, the per 
-son against whom the proofs were so strikingly presumptive. 

As he reflected upon this subject, it seemed to astonish even 
aim self, the degree of criminality which he was now willing t 
attach to his kinsman’s conduct. How was it that he had be 
come so generally suspected ? How easy, if he were able, to 
prove his fidelity 1 Why was he absent from the field ? Where 
tad he been 1 Though proof was wanting to show that he hacl 
oeen active in the British cause, yet none was necessary to show 
that he had been wholly inactive for the American. More than 
once, in the interval which followed from the first futile attempts 
to the final and successful invasion of the state, by the enemy, 
had Clarence sought him, to stimulate his patriotism, and urge him 
o the field All their conferences vcre devoted to this object 


TJE UETROSPEvC THE FOYHTTVE. 


38 


t? youth sometimes assuming a language in the controversy, 
which nothing but the purity of his patriotism and his own 
obvious disinterestedness, could have justified from the lips of a 
younger brother. 

But his exhortations fell upon unheeding ears — his arguments 
m barren places There were no fruits. Edward Conway 
contrived with no small degree of art to conceal his real senti- 
ments, at a time when the great body of the people were only 
too glad to declare themselves, either on one side or the other. 
Subsequently, when the metropolis had fallen, the same adroit- 
ness was exercised to enable him to escape from the consequen- 
ces of committal to either. How this was done — by what 
evasions, or in what manner — Clarence Conway was at a loss 
to understand. 

As the war proceeded, and the invasion of the colony became 
general, the active events of the conflict, the disorders of the 
country, the necessity of rapid flight, from point to point, of all 
persons needing concealment, served to prevent the frequent 
meeting of the kinsmen; — and circumstances, to which we 
have already adverted, not to speak of the equivocal political 
position of the elder brother, contributed to take from such 
meetings what little gratification they might have possessed for 
either party. Whenever they did meet, the efforts of Clarence 
were invariably made, not to find out the mode of life which the 
other pursued, but simply to assure himself that it was right and 
honorable. To this one object all his counsels were addressed ; 
but he was still compelled to be content with a general but 
vague assurance from the other, that it was so. Still there was 
one charge which Edward Conway could not escape. This was 
the omission of that duty to his country, which, in a season of 
invasion, can not be withheld without dishonoring either the 
manhood or the fidelity of the citizen. Clarence was not willing 
to ascribe to treachery this inaction ; yet he could not, when- 
ever he gave any thought to the subject, attribute it to any 
other cause. He knew that Edward was no phlegmatic ; he 
knew that lie was possessed of courage — nor courage merely; 
ce knew that a large portion of audacity and impulse entered 
into his character That he was active in some cause, and con- 


THE SCOUT. 


*4 

sfantly engaged in some business, Edward Conway did not nun 
self seek to deny. What that business was, however, neithei 
the prayers nor the exhortations of Clarence and his friends 
•ould persuade him to declare ; while the discovery of a cir* 
.-i (instance, by the latter which led him to apprehend the in- 
in ference of the former in another field than that of war, con- 
tributed still farther to estrange them from each other. Enough 
now has been sai ' to render the future narrative easy of com- 
prehension. 

While, with vexing and hitter thoughts, Clarence Conway 
awaited the progress of his companion, with the fugitive whom 
he had given into his charge, Supple Jack (for that was the 
nom de guerre conferred by his comrades upon the worthy wood- 
man, in compliment to certain qualities of muscle which made 
his feats sometimes remarkable) penetrated into the recesses of 
the swamp, with a degree of diligence which by no means 
betokened his own disposition of mind in regard to the particu 
lar business upon which he went. But Supple Jack was superioi 
to all that sullenness which goes frowardly to the task, because 
it happens to disapprove it. As a friend, he counselled without 
fear ; as a soldier, he obeyed without reluctance. 

He soon reached the little island on the edge of the Wateree 
river, where Clarence Conway had concealed his kinsman from 
the hot hunt which had pursued him to the neighborhood. So 
suddenly and silently did he send his canoe forward, that her 
prow struck the roots of the tree, at whose base the fugitive 
reclined, before he was conscious of her approach. 

The latter started hastily to his feet, and the suspicious mood 
of Supple Jack was by no means lessened, when he beheld 
him thrust into his bosom a paper upon which he had evidently 
been writing. 

To the passing spectator Edward Conway might have seemed 
to resemble his half-brother. They were not unlike in general 
respects — in height, in muscle, and in size. The air of Clarence 
may have 'been more lofty ; but that of Etfward was equally 
firm. But the close observer would have concurred with the 
woodman, that they were, as kinsman, utterly unlike in almost 
every other respect. The aspect of Clarence Conway was 


THE RETROSPECT — TFIE FUGITIVE. 


3 £ 

bright anil open, like that of an unclouded sky ; that of Ed ?ard 
was dark, reserved and lowering. There was usually a shyness 
and a suspiciousness of manner in his glance and movement : 
and, while lie spoke, the sentences were prolonged, as if to 
permit as much premeditation as possible between every syllable. 
His smile had in it a something sinister, which failed to invite 
or soothe the spectator. It was not the unforced expression of 
a mind at ease — of good-humor — of a heart showing its clear 
depths to the glances of the sun. It was rather the insidious 
lure of the enchanter, who aims to dazzle and beguile. 

As such only did our woodman seem to understand it. The 
strained and excessive cordiality of Edward Conway, as he 
bounded up at his approach — the hearty offer of the hand — 
met with little answering warmth on the part of the former. 
His eye encountered the glance of the fugitive without fear, but 
with a cold reserve ; his hand was quickly withdrawn from the 
close clutch which grasped it ; and the words with which ho 
acknowledged and answered the other’s salutation were as few 
as possible, and such only, as were unavoidable. The fugitive 
saw the suspicion, and felt the coldness with which he was en- 
countered. Without seeming offended, he made it the subject 
of immediate remark. 

“Ha, Jack, how is this? Friends — old friends — should not 
meet after such a fashion. Wherefore are you so cold ? Do you 
forget me ? Have you forgotten that we were boys together, 
Jack — playmates for so many happy years?” 

“ No, no ! I hain’t forgotten anything, Edward Conway, that 
a plain man ought to remember;” replied the woodman, taking 
literally the reproach of his companion. “ But we ain’t boys 
and playmates any longer, Edward Conway. We are men 
now, and these are no times for play of any sort ; and there’s 
a precious few among us that know with whom we can play 
safely, nowadays, without finding our fingers in the wolf’s 
mouth.” 

“ True enough, Jack ; but what’s true of other people needn’t 
be true of us. Times change ; but they shouldn’t change 
friends. We are the same, 1 trust, that we have ever been tc 

one another.” 


36 


THE SCOUT. 


This was said with an eager insinuating manner, and the hand 
of Conway was a second time extended to take that of the other 
But, without regarding the movement, Supple Jack replied with 
a blunt resoluteness of demeanor, which would most effectually 
have rebuffed any less flexible spirit : — 

“ I reckon we a’n’t, Edward Conway, and it’s of no use to 
beat about the bush to find out what to say. Times change and 
we change, and it’s onnatural to expect to keep the same face 
in all weathers. I know there’s a mighty great change in me, 
and I’m thinking there’s the same sort of change going on in 
a’most everybody. 1 used to be a quiet peaceable sort of per- 
son, that wouldn’t hurt a kitten ; and now I’m wolfish more than 
once a week, and mighty apt to do mischief when I feel so. I 
used to believe that whatever a pair of smooth lips said to me 
was true, and now 1 suspicions every smooth speaker I meet, as 
if he wor no better than a snake in the grass. ’Tain’t in my 
natur to keep the same face and feclin’s, always, any more than 
the weather, and I tell you plainly I’m quite another sort of 
person from the boy that used to play with you, and Clarence 
Conway, long time ago.” 

“Ah, Jack, but you liav’n’* changed to him — you are the 
same friend to Clarence Conway as ever.” 

“ Yes, bless God for all his marcies, that made me love the 
boy when he was a boy, and kept the same heart in me after he 
came to be a man. I a’n’t ashamed to say that I love Clarence 
the same as ever, since he never once, in all my dealings with 
him, boy and man, ever gin me reason to distrust him. lie’s 
mighty like an oak in two ways — lie’s got the heart of one, and 
(here’s no more bend in him than in an oak.” 

The cheek of the fugitive was flushed as lie listened to this 
simple and earnest language. He was indiscreet enough to press 
the matter farther 

“But why should you distrust me, Jack Bannister? You 
have known me quite as long as you have known Clarence, we 
have played as much together — ” 

“ Ay !” exclaimed the other abruptly, and with a startling en- 
ergy. “ But we hav’n’t fou’t together, and bled together, and 
slept together and starved together Edward Con wav Y '■>& 


THE RETROSPECT — THE FUGITIVE. 


37 


liav ’n’t been so ready as < Uarence to come out for your country 
Now, I’ve starved in his company, and run, and fou’t, and been 
with him in all sorts of danger, and lie’s never been the first to 
run, and lie’s always been the last to feel afraid, and to show 
that he was hungry. For nine months we had but one blanket 
between us, and that was half burnt up from sleeping too close 
to the ashes one cold night last Christmas. It’s sicli things that 
made us friends from the beginning, and it’s sicli things that 
keep us friends till now. You don’t seem altogether to remem- 
ber, that you and me war never friends, Edward Conway, even 
when we war playmates ; and the reason was I always mis- 
trusted you. Don’t think I mean to hurt your feelings by tel- 
ling you the truth. You’re a sort of prisoner, you see, and it 
would be mighty ongenteel for me to say anything that mought 
give offence, and I ax pardon if I does ; but as I tell you, I mis- 
trusted you from the beginning, and I can’t help telling you that 
I mistrust you to the eend. You lia’n’t got the sort o’ ways I 
like, and when that’s the case, it’s no use to strain one’s natur’ 
to make a liking between feelings that don’t seem to lit. Be- 
sides, you hev’ a bad standing in the country. These men of 
Butler’s swear agin you by another name, and it looks mighty 
suspicious when we come to consider that none of the Avhigs have 
anything to say in your behalf.” 

'‘One thing is certain, John Bannister,” replied the fugitive 
composedly ; “ you at least preserve your ancient bluntness. 
You speak out your mind as plainly as ever.” 

“ I reckon its always best,” was the answer. 

** Perhaps so, though you do me injustice, and your suspicions 
are ungenerous. It is unfortunate for me that, for some little 
time longer I must submit to be distrusted. The time will come, 
however, and I hope very soon, when you will cease to regard 
me with doubt or suspicion.” 

“ Well, I jine my hope to your’n in that matter ; but, till that 
time comes round, Edward Conway, I mought as well say to 
you that we are not friends, and I don’t think it ’ill make us any 
nearer even if you war to prove that you’re no tory. For why 
— I know that you’re no friend to Clarence, for all he’s done 
for you.” 


38 


TBE SCOUT. 


“Ha, Banniste. —how — what know you?” 

“ Enough to make me say what I’m saying. Now, you heat 
me, jest once, for the first and last time that I may ever have a 
chance of letting you see my mind. 1 know enough to know 
that you’ve been a-working agin Clarence, and I suspicions you 
lia’n’t done working agin him. Now, this is to let you under- 
stand that Jack Bannister has nara an eye in his head that 
don’t watch for his friend and agin his enemy : and I tell yon 
all in good natur’, and without meaning any malice, that, what- 
ever harm you do to him, that same harm I’ll double and treble 
upon you, though I wait and watch, out in the worst weather, 
and walk on bloody stumps, to do it. I suspicions you, Edward 
Conway, and I give you fair warning, I’ll be at your heels 
like a dog that never barks to let the world know which way 
he’s running.” 

“ A fair warning enough, Bannister,” replied the fugitive with 
recovered composure, and a moderate show of dignity. “ To 
resent your language, at this time, would be almost as foolish as 
to endeavor to prove that your suspicions of me are groundless. 
I shall not feel myself less manly or less innocent by forbearing 
to do either.” 

“Well, that’s jest as you think propel, Edward Conway; I 
must ax your pardon agin for saying rough things to a man that’s 
a sort of prisoner, but I’m thinking it’s always the cleanest play 
to speak the truth when you’re forced to it. You’ve been talk- 
ing at me ever sence the time I helped Clarence to git you into 
the swamp, as if I had been some old friend of your’n ; and it 
went agin me to stand quiet and hear you all the time, and not 
set you right on that matter. Now, as the thing’s done, with 
your leave we’ll say no more about it. My orders from the 
colonel war to carry you out of the swamp ; so you’ll make 
ready as soon as you can, for there’s precious little of daylight 
left for a mighty dark sort of navigation. 

“And where is he — where do you take me?” demanded the 
fugitive. 

“ Well, it’s not. in my orders to let you know any more than 
I’ve told you : only I may say you don’t go out exactly where 
you came in.” ^ 


THE RETROSPECT — THE FUGITIVE. 


39 


“ Enough, sir. I presume that my brother’s commands will insure 
me a safe guidance ? Iam ready to go with you.” 

This was said with that air of resentment which amply proved to 
the woodman that his blunt freedoms had been sensibly felt. He 
smiled only at the distrust which the words of the fugitive seemed 
to betray, and the haughtiness of his manner appeared rather to 
awaken in the honest scout something of a pleasurable emotion. 

“ Well,” he muttered half aloud as he prepared to throw the boat 
off from her fastenings; “ well, it’s not unreasonable that he should 
be angry. I don’t know but I should like him the better if he would 
throw off his coat and back all his sly doings at the muzzle of the 
pistol. But I have no patience with anything that looks like a sneak.' 
Its bad enough to be dodging with an enemy, but to dodge when a 
friend’s looking arter you, is a sort of sport I consider mighty onbe- 
coming in a white man. It’s nigger natur’, and don’t shame a black 
skin, but — well, you’re ready, Mr. Edward ? Jest take your seat in 
the bottom, and keep stiddy. It’s a ticklish sort of navigation we’ve 
got before us, and our dug-out an’t much more heavier than a good- 
sized calabash. She’ll swim if we’re stiddy, but if you dodge about 
we’ll spile our leggins, and mought be, have to swim for it. Stiddy, 
so. Are you right, sir ? ” 

“Steady — all right ! ” was the calm, low response of the fugitive, 
as the canoe darted through the lagune. 


THE SCOUT. 


iO 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE KINSMEN. 

The boat, under the adroit management of Supple Jack. 
?oon readied the shore where Clarence Conway awaited them. 
Standing side by side, there was little obvious difference between 
the persons of the kinsmen. They were both equally tall, 
strongly made and symmetrical — each had the same general 
cast of countenance — the hair was not unlike; the coinplexio* 
of Edward was darker than that of Clarence. The difference 
between them, physically, if not so obvious, was yet singularly 
marked and substantial. There was that in the expression of 
their several faces, which, to the nice physiognomical critic, did 
not inaptly illustrate the vital differences in the two characters 
as they will be found to display themselves in the progress of 
this narrative. The forehead and chin of the former were much 
smaller than those of the younger. The cheek-bones were 
higher ; the lips, which in Clarence Conway were usually com- 
pressed, giving an air of decision to his moutli which approached 
severity, were, in the case of Edward, parted into smiles, which 
were only too readily and too easily evoked, not, sometimes, to 
awaken doubts of their sincerity in the mind of the spectator. 
Borne well-defined lines about the upper lip and corners of the 
mouth, which signified cares and anxieties, tended still more to 
make doubtful the prompt smile of the wearer. The difference 
of five years — for that period of time lay between their several 
ages — had added a few wrinkles to the cheeks and brow of the 
elder, which nowhere appeared upon the face of the younger. 
A conscience free from reproach, had probably saved him from 
tokens which are quite as frequently the proofs of an ill-ordered 
life as of age and suffering. Some other leading differences be- 
tween the two might be traced out by a close observer, and not 
the least prominent of these exhibited itself at the moment of 


THE KINSMEN. 


41 


their present meeting, in the over-acted kindness and extreme 
courtesy of the fugitive kinsman. His sweet soft tones of con 
ciliation, his studied gentleness of accent, and the extreme hu- 
mility of his gesture — all appeared in large contrast with the 
simple, unaffected demeanor of the younger. The feelings of 
Clarence were all too earnest for mannerism of any sort ; and 
motioning Jack Bannister aside, he met his half-brother with an 
air full of direct purpose, and a keenly-awakened consciousness 
of the dark doubts renewed in his mind upon that mystery which 
rose up like a wall between them. 

It was difficult to say, while Edward Conway was approach- 
ing him, whether sorrow or anger predominated in his counte- 
nance. But the face of the fugitive beamed with smiles, and 
his hand was extended. The hand remained untaken, however, 
and the eye of the elder brother shrunk from the encounter with 
the searching glance of Clarence. A slight suffusion passed 
over his cheek, and there was a tremor in his voice as he spoke, 
which might be natural to the resentment which lie must have 
felt, but which he showed no other disposition to declare. 

“ So cold to me, Clarence ? What now should awaken your 
displeasure ] You have behaved nobly in this business — do not 
send me from you in anger !” 

“ I have behaved only as a brother, Edward Conway. Would 
that you could feel like one! You have again deceived me!" 
was the stern, accusing answer. 

“Deceived you!” w T as the reply, and the eye of the speaker 
wandered from the strong glance of his kinsman, and his lip 
whitened as he spoke; “how, Clarence — how have I deceive 
you V' 

'* But this day you assured me, on your honor, that you had 
not sought Flora Middleton, since my last conference with you 
*>n the subject. 1 now know that you have been at Brier Park 
within the last three weeks.” 

The practised cunning of the worlding came to the relief of 
the accused, and Edward Conway availed himself of one of 
those petty evasions to which none but the mean spirit is ever 
willing to resort. 

“ Very true, Clarence ; but T did not seek Flora in going there 


42 


THE SCOUT. 


I happened to be in the neighborhood at nightfall, and saw no 
good reason for avoiding a good supper and a comfortable bed. 
which 1 knew the hospitalities of Brier Park would always 
afford me. I did go there — that is true — saw Flora and all 
the family — but it is nevertheless equally true, that in going 
there I did not seek her.” 

“ But you withheld the fact of your being there, Edward 
Oonway, and left the impression on my mind that you had not 
seen her.” 

“ I did not seek to convey such an impression, Clarence ; i 
simply spoke to the point, and spoke with literal exactitude.” 

“ You have a legal proficiency in language,” was the sarcastic 
comment. “ But for this I should probably have heard the 
whole truth. What good reason was there why you should be 
so partial in your revelations? Why did you not tell me all?” 

“To answer you frankly, Clarence,” replied the other, with 
the air of a man unbuttoning his bosom to the examination of 
the world — “ I found you jealous and suspicious on this subject 
— in just the mood to convert the least important circumstance 
into a cause of doubt and dissatisfaction ; and, therefore, I with- 
held from you a fact which, however innocent in itself, and un- 
worthy of consideration, I was yet well aware, in your mood of 
mind, would assume an importance and character which justly it 
could not merit. Besides, Clarence, there were so many sub- 
jects of far more interest to my mind, of which we had no 
speech, that I did not care to dwell upon the matter longer than 
was necessary. You forget, Clarence, that I had not seen you 
for months before this meeting.” 

The suspicions of the younger were in no respect disarmed or 
lessened by this explanation. Edward Conway had somewhat 
overshot his mark when he spoke so slightingly of a subject to 
which Clarence attached so high an importance. The latter 
could not believe in the indifference which the other expressed 
in reference to one so dear to himself as Flora Middleton ; and, 
in due degree as he felt the probability that so much merit as he 
esteemed that maiden to possess, could not fail to awaken the 
tender passion in all who beheld her, so was he now inclined to 
consider the declaration of his kinsman as an hypocrisy equally 


THE KINSMEN. 


43 

gross and shallow. He resolved, internally, that he should nei- 
ther deceive his judgment nor disarm his watchfulness ; that, 
while he himself forbore reproaches of every sort, which, indeed, 
at that moment, would have seemed ungenerous and ungracious, 
be would endeavor to maintain a surveillance over his rival’s 
movements, which would at least defeat such of his machinations 
as might otherwise tend to beguile from himself the affections 
of the beloved object. The closing words of Edward Conway 
suggested a natural change of the subject, of which Clarence 
quickly availed himself. 

“ You remind me, Edward Conway, that, though we have 
spoken ol various and interesting subjects, you have not yet 
given me the information which I sought, on any. The one 
most important to both of us, Edward Conway — to our father’s 
family, to the name we bear, and the position we should equally 
sustain, as well to the past as to the future, in the eye of our 
country — is that of your present public course. On that sub- 
ject you have told me nothing. Of your position in this con- 
flict 1 know nothing ; and what little reaches my ears from the 
lips of others, is painfully unfavorable. Nay, more, Edward 
Conway, I am constrained to think, and I say it in bitterness 
and sadness, that what you have said, in reply to my frequent 
and earnest inquiries on this point, has seemed to me intended 
rather to evade than to answer my demands. I can not divest 
myself of the conviction that you have spoken on this subject 
with as careful a suppression of the whole truth, as this morning 
when you gave me the assurance with regard to Flora Middle- 
ton.” 

A heavy cloud darkened, though for a moment only, the face 
of the elder Conway. 

“ There are some very strong prejudices against me in your 
mind, Clarence, or it would not be difficult for you to under- 
stand how I might very naturally have secrets which should not 
be revealed, and yet be engaged in no practices which would 
either hurt my own, or the honor of my family.” 

“ This I do not deny, Edward, however suspicious it may 
seem that such secrets should be withheld from an only brother, 
whose faith vou have never yet found reason to suspect ; whose 


44 


THE SCOUT. 


prudence yon have never found occasion tn But I do 

not ask for any of your secrets. I should scorn myself for ever 
did I feel a single desire to know that which you have any good 
reason to withhold from me. It is only that I may defend you 
from injustice — from slander — from the suspicions of the true 
and the worthy — that I would he fortified. by a just knowledge 
of your objects and pursuits. Surely, there can be no good rea- 
son to withhold this knowledge, if what you do is sanctioned by 
propriety and the cause for which we are all in arms.” 

“It is sanctioned by the cause for which we are in arms,” re- 
plied the other, hastily. “ Have I not assured you that I am no 
traitor — that my fidelity to my country is not less pure and per- 
fect than your own ? The slanderer will defame and the credu- 
lous will believe, let us labor as we may. I take no heed of 
these — I waste no thought on such profitless matters ; and you, 
Clarence, will save yourself much pain, and me much annoying 
conjecture, if you will resolve to scorn their consideration with 
myself, and cast them from your mind. Give them no concern. 
Believe me to be strangely and awkwardly placed; but no\ 
criminal — not wilfully and perversely bent on evil. Is not 
this enough ? What more shall I say? Would you have me — 
your elder brother — bearing the same name with yourself — de 
dare to you, in words, that I am not the black-hearted, blood 
thirsty, reckless monster, which these wide-mouthed creatures, 
these blind mouths and bitter enemies, proclaim me ?” 

“ But why are these men of Butler your enemies ? They are 
not the enemies of your country.” 

“ I know not that,” said the other hastily. 

“ Your doubt does them gross injustice,” replied Clarence 
Conway, with increased earnestness ; “ they are known men — 
tried and true — and whatever may be their excesses and vio- 
lence, these are owing entirely to the monstrous provocation 
they have received. How can it be, Edward, that you have 
roused these men to such a degree of hostility against yourself? 
They bear to you no ordinary hate — they speak of you in no 
ordinary language of denunciation — ” 

“ My dear Clarence,” said the other, “ you seem to forget all 
the while, that they never spoke of me at all — certainly not by 


THE KINSMEN. 


4 b 


name. They know me not — they have moat assuredly con- 
founded me with another. Even if I were indeed the person 
whom they hate, to answer your questions would be no easy 
matter. As well might I undertake to show why there are 
crime and injustice in the world, as why there are slander and 
suspicion. These are plants that will grow, like joint- grass, in 
every soil, weed and work at them as you may.” 

“ It. is nevertheless exceedingly strange, Edward,” was the 
musing answer of the 'still unsatisfied Clarence ; “ it is strange 
how any set of men should make such a mistake.” 

“ The strangest thing of all is, that my own brother should 
think it so. Why should you ?” 

“ Should I not ? 

“Wherefore? — You can not believe that I am, indeed, what 
they allege me to be — the chief of the Black Riders — that 
dreaded monster — half-man, half-dragon — who slays the men 
swallows the children, and flies. off with the damsels. Ha! ha 
n a ! Really, Clarence, I am afraid you are as credulous now at 
twenty-five as you were at five.” 

“ It is not that I believe, Edward Conway. If I did, the 
name of my father, which you bear, had not saved your life. 
But, why, again, are you suspected? Suspicion follows no ac- 
tions that are not doubtful — it dogs no footsteps which are 
straightforward — it haunts no character, the course of which 
has been direct and unequivocal ? My unhappiness is that you 
have made yourself liable to be confounded with the criminal, 
because you have not been seen with the innocent. You are 
not with us, and the natural presumption is that you are with 
our enemies.” 

“ I should not care much for the idle gabble of these country 
geese, Clarence, but that you should echo their slanders — ‘that 
vou should join in the hiss !” 

This was spoken with the air of mortified pride, such as might 
Me supposed the natural emotion of every honorable spirit, as- 
sailed by the doubts of friend or kinsman. 

“I do not — all I demand of you is that confidence which 
would enable me to silence it.” 

“As. well attempt to silence the storm. The attempt would 


46 


THE SCOUT. 


be idle ; and, if made, where should we begin ? What suspioior 
must 1 first dissipate ? Whose poisonous breath must I first en- 
counter 1 This story of the Black Riders, for example — do you 
really believe, Clarence, in the alleged existence of this ban- 
ditti ?” 

I do ! — I can not believe otherwise.” 

“Impossible! I doubt it wholly. These dastardly fellows 
of Butler have fancied half the terrors they describe. Their 
fears have magnified their foes, and I make no question they 
have slandered as civil a set of enemies as ever had a profes- 
sional sanction for throat-cutting. Really, Clarence, the very 
extravagance of these stories should save you from belief ; and 
I must say, if you do believe, that a little more of the brotherly 
love which you profess, should keep you from supposing me to 
be the savage monster of whom they give such lioiiid traits in 
the chief of tins Black banditti. My very appearance — in 
our youth, Clarence, considered not very much unlike your own 
— should save me from these suspicions. See! — my skin is 
rather fair than dark ; and as for the mass of hair which is said 
to decorate the chin, and the black shock which surrounds the 
face of the formidable outlaw — none who looks at my visage 
will fancy that Esau could ever claim me for his kinsman. My 
vanity, indeed, is quite as much touched as my honor, Clarence, 
that my smooth visage should suffer such cruel mirepresenta- 
tion.” 

And as the speaker concluded this rhapsody, his eye suddenly 
wandered from that of the person he addressed, and rested ubon, 
the belt which encircled his own body — a belt of plain blalck 
leather, secured by an ordinary iron buckle, painted of the saiae 
color, and freshly varnished. An uneasy upward glance, at this 
moment, encountered that of his kinsman, whose eyes had evi- 
dently followed his own, to the examination of the same object. 
In this single glance and instant, it seemed that the moral chasm 
which had always existed between their souls, had yawned widei 
and spread farther than before. There was a mutual instinc 
where there was no mutual sympathy. The disquiet of the one 
and the doubts of the other, were reawakened ; and though nei 
ther spoke, yet both understood the sudden difficulties of further 


THlii KINSMEN. 


47 


speech between them. Another voice, at this moment, broke 
the silence, which it did not however relieve of any of that pain- 
ful pressure which the interview possessed over both the inter- 
ested parties. The impatience of the worthy woodman had 
brought him sufficiently nigh to hear some of the last words of 
the elder kinsman. 

“Well,” said he, bluntly, “if long talking can make^ any case 
cl’ar, then it’s pretty sartin, Edward ConWay, that they’ve 
mightily belied you. What you say is very true about skin, 
awd face, and complexion, and all that. Naterally, you ha’n’t 
no great deal of beard, and your shock, as it stands, wouldn’t be 
a sareumfctance alongside of the colonel’s or my own. But I’ve 
hearn of contrivances to help natur in sich a matter. I’ve hearn 
of livin’ men, and livin’ women too, that dressed themselves up 
in the sculps of dead persons, and made a mighty pretty figger 
of hair for themselves, when, naterally they had none. Now, 
they do say, that the Black Riders does the same thing. No- 
body that I’ve ever hearn speak of then?, ever said that the sculps 
was nateral that they had on ; and the beards, too, would come 
and go, jist according to the company they want to keep. It’s 
only a matter of ten days ago — the time you may remember, 
by a mighty ugly run you had of it from these same boys of 
Butler — that I was a-going over the same ground, when, what 
should I happen to see in the broad track but one of these same 
changeable sculps — the sculp for the head and the sculp for the 
chin, and another sculp that don’t look altogether so nateral, 
that must ha’ gone somewhere about the mouth, though it must 
ba’ been mighty onpleasant, a-tickling of the nostrils ; for you 
see, if I knows anything of human natur, or beast natur, this 
sculp come, at first, from the upper side of a five year old fox- 
squirrel, one of the rankest in all the Santee country. 1 knew 
by the feel somewhat, and a little more by the smell. Now, 
Mr. Edward Conway, if you’ll jist look at these here fixin’s, you 
won’t find it so hard to believe that a fair-skinned man mout 
■wear a black sculp and a mighty dark complexion onderneath, 
if so be the notion takes him. Seein’s believing. I used to 
think, before we went out, that it was all an ole woman’s story, 
but as sure as a gun, I found these sarcumstances, jist as> you 


48 


THE SCOUT. 


see ’em, on the broad path down to the. Waterce ; and I reckon 
that’s a strong Sarcumstance, by itself, to make me think they 
was made for something, and for somebody to wear. But that’s 
only my notion. I reckon it’s easy enough, in sich times as 
these, for every man to find a different way of thinking when 
he likes to.” 

The articles described by the woodman were drawn from his 
bosom as he spoke, and displayed before the kinsmen. The 
keen eyes of Clarence, now doubly sharpened by suspicion, 
seemed disposed to pierce into the very soul of Edward Conway 
He, however, withstood the analysis with all the calm fortitude 
of a martyr. He examined the several articles with /lie man- 
ner of one to whom they were entirely new and strange ; and 
when he had done, quietly remarked to the deliberate wood- 
man, that he had certainly produced sufficient evidence to satisfy 
him, if indeed he were not satisfied before, “ that a man, disposed 
to adopt a plan of concealment and disguise, could readily find, 
or make, the materials to do so.” 

“ But this, Clarence,” said he, turning to his kinisman, “ this 
has nothing to do with what I was saying of myself. If does 
not impair the assurance which I made you — ” 

Clarence Conway, who had been closely examining the arti- 
cles, without heeding his brother, demanded of tho woodman 
why he had not shown them to him before. 

“ Well, colonel, you see I didn’t find them ontil the second 
day after the chase, when you sent me up, to scout along tie 
hills.” 

“ Enough ! — Bring up the horses.” 

“ Both V* asked the woodman, with some anxiety. 

“ Yes ! I will ride a little way with my brother,” - \ 

The horses were brought in a few moments from the mouth 
of a gorge which ran between the hills at the foot of which they 
stood. The promptness of the woodman’s movements prevent- 
ed much conversation, meanwhile, between the kinsmen ; nor 
did either of them appear to desire it. The soul of Clarence 
wa s full of a new source of disquiet and dread ; while the ap- 
prehensions of Edward Conway, if entirely of another sort, were 
yet too active to permit of his very ready speech. As the kins- 


l’HE KINSMEN. 49 

men were preparing to mount, Supple Jack interposed, and 
drew his superior aside. 

Well, what’s the matter now ?” demanded Clarence impatient- 
ly. ‘ s Speak quickly, Jack — the storm is at hand — the rain is 
already falling.” 

“ les, and that’s another reason for your taking to the swamp 
ug’in. In three hours the hills will tell a story of every step 
that your horse is taking ” 

“Well, what of that?” 

“ Why, matter enough, if the tories are on the look out for 
us, which I’m dub’ous is pretty much the case. I didn’t al- 
together like the signs I fell in with on the last scout, and if so 
be that Edward Conway is one of these Black Riders, then it’s 
good reason to believe they’ll be looking after him in the place 
where they lost him.” 

“ Pshaw, no more of this,” said the other angrily. 

“Well, Clarence, you may ‘pshaw’ it to me as much as you 
please, only I’m mighty sartain, in your secret heart, you don’t 
‘ pshaw’ it to yourself. It’s a strange business enough, and it’s 
not onreasonable in me to think so — seeing what I have seen, 
and knowing what I know. Now that Butler’s boys are gone 
upward, these fellows will swarm thick as grasshoppers in all 
this country ; and it’s my notion, if you will go, that you should 
keep a sharp eye in your head, and let your dogs bark at the 
first wink of danger. I’m dub’ous you’re running a mighty 
great risk on this side of the Wateree. There’s no telling 
where Marion is jist at this time ; and there’s a rumor that 
Watson’s on the road to jine Rawdon. Some say that Raw- 
don’s going to leave Camden, and call in his people from Ninety- 
Six and Augusta ; and if so, this is the very pah’t of the country 
where there’s the best chance of meeting him and all of them. 

I wouldn’t ride far, Clarence ; and I’d ride fast ; and I’d git 
back as soon as horseflesh could bring me. Sorrel is in full 
blood now, and he’ll show the cleanest heels in the country, at 
the civillest axing of the spur.” 

“ You are getting as timid, Jack, as you are suspicious,” said 
the youth kindly, and with an effort at composure, which was 
not successful. “ Age is coming upon you, and I fear, before 


60 


THE SCOUT. 


the campaign is over, you’ll be expecting to be counted among 
the non-combatants. Don’t apprehend for me, Jack; I will 
return before midnight. Keep up your scout, and get a stouter 
heart at work — you couldn’t have a better one.” 

“That’s to say, Clarry, that I’m a durn’d good-natered fool 
for my pains. I onderstands you — ” 

The rest was lost to the ears of Clarenco Conway, in the rush 
of his own and the steed of his companion. 

The worthy scout, however, continued the speech even aftei 
the departure of all hearers. 

“But, fool or not, I’ll look after you, as many a fool before 
has looked after a wiser man, and been in time to save him 
when he couldn’t save himself. As for you, Ned Conway,” he 
continued in brief soliloquy, and with a lifted finger, “ you may 
draw your skairts over the eyes of Clarence, but it’ll take thicker 
skairts than yourn to blind Jack Bannister. You couldn’t do it 
altogether when we war boys together, and I’m a thinking — 
it’ll be a mighty onbecoming thing to me, now that I’m a man, 
;f I should let you be any more successful. Well, hero we 
stand. The thing’s to be done; the game’s to be played out; 
and the stakes, Ned Conway, must be my head agin yourn. 
The game's a fair one enough, and the head desarves to lose it, 
that can’t keep its place on the shoulders where God put it.” 

With this conclusive philosophy, the scout tightened his belt 
about his waist, threw up his rifle, the flint and priming of 
which he carefully examined, then, disappeared for a brief space 
among the stunted bushes that grew beside the swamp thicket. 
He emerged soon after, leading a stout Cherokee pony, which 
had been contentedly ruminating among the cane-tops. Mount- 
ing this animal, which was active and sure-footed, he set off 1 ir. 
a smart canter upon the track pursued by his late companions, 
just as the rainstorm, which had been for some time threatening, 
began to discharge the hoarded torrents of several wrecks upor 
the parched and thirsting earth. 


THE BLADE EIDERS OF CONOAREE. 


fil 


CHAPTER V. 

THE BLACK RIDERS OF CONOAREE- 

While the kinsmen were about to leave the banks of the 
Wateree, for the Santee hills beyond, there were other parties 
among those hills, but a few miles distant, preparing to move 
down, on the same road, toward the Wateree. The eye of the 
skulking woodman may have seen, toward nightfall, a motley 
and strange group of horsemen, some sixty or seventy in num- 
ber, winding slowly down the narrow gorges, with a degree of 
cautious watchfulness, sufficient to make them objects of sus- 
picion, even if the times were not of themselves enough to ren- 
der all things so. The unwonted costume of these horsemen 
was equally strange and calculated to inspire apprehension. They 
were dressed in complete black — each carried broadsword and 
pistols, and all the usual equipments of the well-mounted dra- 
goon. The belt around the waist, the cap which hung loosely 
upon the brow ; the gloves, the sash — all were distinguished by 
the same gloomy aspect. Their horses alone, various in size 
and color, impaired the effect of this otherwise general uniform- 
ity. Silently they kept upon their way, like the shadows of 
some devoted band of the olden time, destined to reappear, and 
to reoccupy, at certain periods of the night, the scenes in which 
they fought and suffered. Their dark, bronzed visages, at a 
nearer approach, in nowise served to diminish the general sever- 
ity of their appearance. Huge, bushy beards, hung from every 
chin, in masses almost weighty enough to rival the dense forests 
which are worn, as a matter of taste, at the present day, in the 
same region, by a more pacific people. The mustache ran lux- 
uriant above the mouth, greatly cherished, it would seem, if not 
cultivated ; for no attempt appeared to be made by the wearer,, 
to trim and curl the pampered growth, after the fashion of Rus- 
sians and Mussulmans. The imperial tuft below, like that which 


52 


THE SCOUT. 


decorates so appropriately the throat of the turkey, seemed de< 
signed, in the case of each of our sable riders, to emulate in 
length and dimensions, if not in fitness, that of the same preten- 
tious bird. Some of these decorations were, doubtlessly, like 
those which became the spoil of our worthy woodman in a pre- 
vious chapter, of artificial origin ; but an equal number were 
due to the bounteous indulgence of Dame Nature herself. Of 
the troop in question, and their aspects, something more might 
be said. They had evidently, most of them, seen service in the 
“ imminent deadly breach.” Ugly scars were conspicuous on 
sundry faces, in spite of the extensive foliage of beard, which 
strove vainly to conceal them; and the practised ease of their 
horsemanship, the veteran coolness which marked their deliber- 
ate and watchful movements, sufficiently declared the habitual 
and well-appointed soldier. 

Still, there was not so much of that air of military subordina- 
tion among them which denotes the regular service. They were 
not what we call regulars — men reduced to the conditions of 
masses, and obeying, in mass, a single controlling will. They 
seemed to be men, to whom something of discipline was relaxed 
in consideration of other more valuable qualities of valor and 
forward enterprise, for which they might be esteemed. Though 
duly observant not to do anything which might yield advantage 
to an enemy, prowling in the neighborhood, still, this caution 
was not so much the result of respect for their leader, as the 
natural consequence of their own experience, and the individual 
conviction of each of what was due to the general safety. They 
were not altogether silent as they rode, and when they addressed 
their superiors, there was none of that nice and blind deference 
upon which military etiquette, among all well-ordered bodies of 
men, so imperatively insists. The quip and crack were freely 
indulged in — the' ribald jest was freely spoken; and, if the 
ribald song remained unsung, it was simply because of a becom- 
ing apprehension that its melodies might reach other ears than 
their own. 

Their leader, if he might be so considered, to whom they 
turned for the small amount of guidance which they seemed to 
need, was scarcely one of the most attractive among their num- 


THE BLACK RIDERS OF CONGAREE. 


53 


ber. He was a short, thick set, dark-looking person, whose 
stern and inflexible features were never lightened unless by 
gleams of anger and ferocity. He rode at their head, heard in 
silence the most that was said by those immediately about him, 
and if he gave any reply, it was uttered usually in a cold, con- 
clusive monosyllable. His dark eye was turned as frequently 
upward to the lowering skies as along the path he travelled. 
Sometimes he looked back upon his troop — and occasionally 
halted at the foot of the hill till the last of his band had appeared 
in sight above. His disposition to taciturnity was not offensive 
to those to whom he permitted a free use of that speech in which 
he did not himself indulge ; and, without heeding his phlegm, 
his free companions went on without any other restraint than 
arose from their own sense of what was due to caution in an en- 
emy’s country. 

Beside the leader, at moments, rode one who seemed to be 
something of a favorite with him, and who did not scruple, at 
all times to challenge the attention of his superior. He was 
one — -perhaps the very youngest of the party — whose quick, ac- 
tive movements, keen eyes, and glib utterance, declared him to 
belong to the class of subtler spirits who delight to manage the 
more direct, plodding, and less ready of their race. It is not 
improbable that he possessed some such influence over the per- 
son whom we have briefly described, of which the latter was 
himself totally unconscious. Nothing in the deportment of the 
former would have challenged a suspicion of this sort. Though 
he spoke freely and familiarly, yet his manner, if anything, was 
much more respectful than that generally of his companions. 
This man was evidently a close observer, as even his most care- 
less remarks fully proved ; and the glances of disquiet which 
the leader cast about him, at moments, as he rode, did not es- 
cape his notice. Upon these he did not directly comment. His 
policy, of course, did not suffer him so greatly to blunder as to 
assume that a lieutenant, or captain, of dragoons could be dis- 
quieted by any thing. When he spoke, therefore, even when 
his purpose was counsel or suggestion, he was careful that his 
language should not indicate his real purpose. We take up the 
dialogue between the parties at a moment, when, pausing at the 


54 


THE SCOUT. 


bottom ot one bill, and about to commence the ascent of anoth- 
er, the leader of the squad cast a long thoughtful glance sky- 
ward, and dubiously, but unconsciously, shook his head at the 
survey. 

“We are like to have the storm on our backs, lieutenant, be- 
fore we can get to a place of shelter ; and I’m thinking if we 
don’t look out for quarters before it comes down in real earnest, 
there’ll be small chance of our finding our way afterward. The 
night will be here in two hours and a mighty dark one it will 
be, I’m thinking.” 

The lieutenant again looked forward, and upward, and around 
him, and a slight grunt, which was half a sigh, seemed to ac- 
knowledge the 'truth of the other’s observations. 

“ I doubt,” continued the first speaker, “ if our drive to-day 
will be any more lucky than before. I’m afraid it’s all over 
with the captain.” 

Another grunt in the affirmative ; and the subordinate pro- 
ceeded with something more of confidence. 

“ But there’s no need that we should keep up the hunt in such 
a storm as is coming on. Indeed, there’s but little chance of 
finding anybody abroad but ourselves in such weather. I ’m think- 
ing, lieutenant, that it wouldn’t be a bad notion to turn our heads 
and canter off to old Muggs’s at once.” 

“ Old Muggs ! why how far d’ye think lie’s off?” 

“ Not three miles, as I reckon. We’ve gone about seven from 
Cantey’s, he’s only eight to the right, and if we take a short cut 
that lies somewhere in this quarter — I reckon I can find it soon 
— we’ll be there in a short half hour.” 

“ Well ! you’re right — we’ll ride to Muggs’s. There’s no use 
keeping up this cursed hunt and no fun in it.” 

“ Yes, and x reckon we can soon make up our minds to get 
another captain.” 

A smirk of the lips, which accompanied this sentence, was 
intended to convey no unpleasant signification to the ears of his 
superior 

“ How, Darcy — how is it — have you sounded them ? What 
do they say now ?” demanded the latter with sudden earnest- 
ness 


THE BLACK RIDERS OF CONGAREE. 55 

“Well, lieutenant, I reckon we can manage it pretty much 
as we please. That’s my notion.” 

“ You think so ? Some of them have a strange liking fot 
Morton.” 

“ Yes, but not many, and they can be cured of that.” 

“ Enough, then, till we get to Muggs’s. Then we can talk it 
over. But beware of what you say to him. Muggs is no friend 
of mine, you know.” 

“ Nor is he likely to be, so long as he wears that scar on his 
face in token that your hand is as heavy as your temper is pas- 
sionate. He remembers that blow!” 

“It isn’t that, altogether,” replied the other; “but the truth 
is, that we English are no favorites here, even among the most 
loyal of this people. There ’s a leaning to their own folks, that 
always gets them the preference when we oppose them ; and 
old Muggs has never been slow to show us that he has no love 
to spare for any king’s man across the water. I only wonder, 
knowing their dislikes as 1 do, that there’s a single loyalist in 
the colony. These fellows that ride behind us, merciless as 
they have ever shown themselves in a conflict with the rebels, 
yet there ’3 not one of them who, in a pitched battle between 
one of us and one of them, wouldn’t be more apt to halloo for 
him than for us. Nothing, indeed, has secured them to the 
king’s side but the foolish violence of the rebels, which wouldn’t 
suffer the thing to work its own way ; and began tarring and 
feathering and flogging at the beginning of the squabble. Had 
they left it to time, there wouldn’t have been one old Muggs 
from Cape Fear to St. Catharine’s. We shouldn’t have had 
such a troop as that which follows us now ; nor would I, this 
day, be hunting, as lieutenant of dragoons, after a leader, who — ” 

“ Whom we shall not find in a hurry, and whom we no longer 
need,” said the subordinate, concluding the sentence which the 
other had partly suppressed. 

“Policy! policy!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “That was 
Rawdon’s pretext for refusing me the commission, and conferring 
it upon Morton. He belonged to some great family on the Con- 
garee, and must have it therefore ; but, now, he can scarcely 
refuse it, if it be as we suspect. If Mori on be laid by the heels, 


56 


THE SCOUT. 


even as a prisoner, he is dead to us. The rebels will novel 
suffer him to live if they have taken him.” 

“ No, indeed,” replied the other ; “ he hasn’t the first chance. 
And that they have taken him, there is little doubt on my mind.” 

“ Nor on mine. What follows if the men agree ?” 

“ What should follow? The friends of Morton can say noth- 
ing. The command naturally falls into your hands without a 
word said.” 

“ 1 ’m not so sure of that, either. There's some of them that 
don’t care much about Morton, yet don’t like me.” 

“Perhaps! But, what of that? The number’s not many, 
and we can put them down, if it comes to any open opposition. 
But we’ll see to that this very night, when we get to Muggs’s.” 

“ For Muggs’s, then, with all the speed we may. Take the 
lead, yourself, Darcy, and see after this short cutj You know 
the country better than I. We must use spur, if we would es- 
cape the storm. These drops are growing bigger, and falling 
faster, every moment. Go ahead, while X hurry the fellows for- 
ward at a canter ; and even that will barely enable us to save 
our distance.” 

“ It matters little for the wetting, lieutenant, when we remem- 
ber what’s to follow it. Promotion that comes by water is not 
by any means the worse for The wetting. The shine gets dim 
upon the epaulettes ; but they are epaulettes, all the same. 
There’s the profit, lieutenant — the profit!” 

“ Ay, the profit ! Yes, that will reconcile us to worse weather 
than this ; but — ” 

The sentence was left unfinished, while the subordinate rode 
ahead and out of hearing. The lieutenant signalled his men, as 
they slowly wound down the hill, to quicken pace ; and while 
he watched their movements, his secret thoughts had vented in 
a low soliloquy. 

“ True ! the event will reconcile us to the weather. The 
prize is precious. Power is always precious. But here the 
prize is something more than power; it is safety — it is freedom. 
If Morton is laid by the heels for ever, I am safe. I escape my 
danger — my terror — the presence which I hate and fear ! I 
do not deceive myself, though I may blind these. Edward 


THE BLACK RIDERS OF CO NO A REE. . 


67 


Morton was one in whose presence T shrunk to less than my full 
proportions. That single act — that act of shame and baseness 
— made me his slave. He alone, knows the guilt and the mean- 
ness of that wretched moment of my life. God ! what would I 
not give to have that memory obliterated in him who did, and 
him who beheld, the deed of that moment. I feel my heart 
tremble at his approach — my muscles wither beneath his glance ; 
and I, who fear not the foe, and shrink not from the danger, and 
whom men call brave — brave to desperation — I dare not lift 
my eyes to the encounter with those of another having limbs 
and a person neither stronger nor nobler than my own. He 
down, and his lips for ever closed, and I am free. I can then 
breathe in confidence, and look around me without dreading the 
glances of another eye. But, even should he live — should he 
have escaped this danger — why should I continue to draw my 
breath in fear, when a single stroke may make my safety cer- 
tain — may nd me of every doubt — every apprehension? It 
must be so. Edward Morton, it is sworn. In your life my 
shame lives, and while your lips have power of speech, I am no 
moment safe from dishonor. Your doom is written, surely and 
soon, if it be not already executed.” 

These words were only so many indistinct mutterings, inau- 
dible to those who followed him. He commanded them to 
approach, quickened their speed, and the whole troop, following 
his example, set off on a smart canter in the track which Darcy 
had taken. Meanwhile, the storm, which before had only 
threatened, began to pour down its torrents, and ere they 
reached the promised shelter at Muggs’s — a rude cabin of pine 
logs, to which all direct approach was impossible, and which 
none but an initiate could have found, so closely was it buried 
among the dense groves that skirted the river swamp, and may 
nave formed a portion of its primitive domain. Here the party 
came to a full halt, but the object at which they aimed appeared 
to be less their own than their horses and equipments. These 
were conducted into yet deeper recesses, where, in close woods 
and shrubbery, in which art had slightly assisted nature, they 
were so bestowed as to suffer only slightly from the storm. 
The greater portion of the taroop took shelter in *J»e cabin of 


58 


THE SCOUT. 


Muggs, while a small squad still kept in motion around Ihe 
neighborhood, heedless of the weather, and quite as watchful 
from long habit, as if totally unconscious of any annoyances. 

The establishment of Muggs was one, in fact, belonging to 
the party. The host himself was a retired trooper, whom a 
wound in the right arm had so disabled that amputation became 
necessary. Useless to the troop in actual conflict, he was yet 
not without his uses in the position which he held, and the new 
duties he had undertaken. He was a blunt, fearless old soldier, 
a native of the neighborhood, who, being maimed, was tolerated 
by the wliigs as no longer capable of harm ; and suffered to re- 
main in a region in which it was thought, even if disposed to do 
mischief, his opportunities were too few to make his doings of 
very serious importance. He sold strong liquors, also — did not 
villanously dilute his beverages — and, as he made no distinc- 
tion between his customers, and provided wliigs and tories at the 
same prices, there was no good reason to expel him from his 
present position by way of punishing him for a course of conduct 
in which so heavy a penalty seemed already to have been at- 
tached. He was prudent enough — though he did not withhold 
his opinions — to express them without warmth or venom ; and, 
as it was well known to the patriots that he had never been a 
savage or blood-thirsty enemy, there was a very general dispo- 
sition among them to grant him every indulgence. Perhaps, 
however, all these reasons would have been unavailing in his 
behalf, at the sanguinary period of which we write, but for the 
excellence of his liquors, and the certainty of his supply. His 
relations with the British enabled him always to provide himself 
at Charleston, and every public convoy replenished his private 
stores. It should be also understood that none of the wliigs, at 
any moment, sheeted the worthy landlord of a previous or 
present connection with a band so odious as that of the Black 
Riders. The appearance of these desperadoes was only a signal 
to Muggs to take additional precautions. As we have already 
stated, a portion of the band was sent out to patrol the sur- 
rounding country; and the number thus despatched, on the 
present occasion, was, by the earnest entreaty of the host, made 
twice as large as the lieutenant thought there was any occasion 


THE BLACK RIDERS DF CONGAREE. 59 

for. But the former insisted, with characteristic stubbornness, 
and with a degree of sullenness in his manner which was foreign 
to his usual custom. 

“ I m not over-pleased to see you here at all, this time, 
lieutenant, though I reckon you’ve a good reason enough for 
coming. There ’s a sharp stir among the rebels all along the 
\\ ateree, and down on the Santee, there ’s no telling you how 
tar. As for the Congarees, it’s a-swarm thar’, in spite of all Bill 
Cunningham can do, and he’s twice as spry as ever. Here, 
only two days ago, has been that creeping critter, Supple Jack ; 
that come in, as I may say, over my shoulder, like the old Satan 
himself. At first I did think it was the old Satan, till he laughed 
at my scare, and then I know’d him by his laugh. Now, it’s 
not so easy to cheat Supple Jack, and he knows all about your 
last coming. He ’s willing to befriend me, though lie gin me 
fair warning, last time he was here, that I was suspicioned for 
loving you too well. Now, split my cedars, men, I’ve got 
mighty little reason to love you — you know that — and I’m 
thinking, for your sake and mine both, the sooner you draw spur 
for the mountains, the smoother will be the skin you keep. I 
Hon’t want to see the ugly face of one of you for a month of 
Sundays.” 

“ Why, Muggs — old Muggs — getting scared in the very be- 
ginning of the season ! How ’s this ? — what ’s come over you V ’ 
was the demand of half a dozen. 

“ I’ve reason to be scared, when I know that hemp’s growing 
for every man that’s keeping bad company. Such rapscallions 
as you, if you come too often, would break up the best ‘mug’ in 
the country.” 

The landlord’s pun was innocent enough, and seemed an old 
one. It awakened no more smile on his lips than upon those' of 
his guests. It was spoken in serious earnest. He continued to 
belabor them with half playful abuse, mingled with not a few 
well-intended reproaches, while providing, with true landlord 
consideration, for their several demands. The Jamaica rum 
was put in frequent requisition — a choice supply of lemons was 
produced from a box beneath the floor, and the band was soon 
broken up into little groups that huddled about, each after it® 


60 


THE SCOUT. 


own fashion, in the several corners of the wigwam. The rain 
meanwhile beat upon, and, in some places, through the roof — 
the rush of the wind, the weight of the torrent, and the general 
darkness of the scene, led naturally to a considerable relaxation 
even of that small degree of discipline which usually existed 
among the troop. Deep draughts were swallowed ; loud talking 
ensued, frequent oaths, and occasionally a sharp dispute, quali- 
fied by an equally sharp snatch of a song from an opposite quar- 
ter, proved all parties to be at ease, and each busy to his own 
satisfaction. 

The lieutenant of the troop, whom we have just seen acting in 
command, was perhaps the least satisfied of any of the party. 
Not that he had less in possession, but that he had more in 
hope. He suffered the jibe and the song to pass ; the oath 
roused him not, nor did he seem to hear the thousand and one 
petty disputes that gave excitement to the scene. He seemed 
disposed — and this may have been a part of his policy — to 
release his men from all the restraints, few though they were, 
which belonged to his command. But his policy was incom- 
plete. It was not enough that he should confer licentious privi 
leges upon his followers — to secure their sympathies, he should 
have made himself one of them. He should have given himself 

portion of that license which he had accorded to them. But 
he was too much of the Englishman for that. He could not di- 
vest himself of that haughty bearing which was so habitual in 
the carriage of the Englishman in all his dealings with the pro- 
vincial, and which, we suspect, was, though undeclared, one of 
the most active influences to provoke the high-spirited people of 
the south to that violent severing of their connection with the 
mother-country, which was scarcely so necessary in their case 
as in that of the northern colonies. 

Our lieutenant — whose name was Stockton — it is true, 
made sundry, but not very successful efforts, to blend himself 
with his comrades. He shared their draughts, he sometimes 
yielded his ears where the dialogue seemed earnest — sometimes 
he spoke, and his words were sufficiently indulgent; but he 
lacked utterly that ease of carriage, that simplicity of manner, 
which alone could prove that his condescension was not the re- 


THE BLACK RIDERS OF CONGAREE. 


61 


suit of effort, and against the desires of liis mind. Ixis agent, 
Darcy, was more supple as he was more subtle. He was not 
deficient in those arts which, among the ignorant, will always 
secure the low. He drank with them, as if he could not well 
have drunk without them — threw himself among their ranks, 
as if he could not have disposed his limbs easily anywhere else ; 
and did for his superior what the latter could never have done 
for himself. He operated sufficiently on the minds of several to 
secure a faction in his favor, and thus strengthened, he availed 
himself of the moment when the Jamaica had proved some por- 
tion of its potency, to broach openly the subject which had 
hitherto been only discussed in private. 

Of the entreaties, the arguments, or the promises made by 
Ensign Darcy to persuade the troop into his way of thinking, 
we shall say nothing. It will be sufficient for our purpose that 
we show the condition of things at this particular juncture. (Son 
siderable progress had now been made with the subject. It had, 
in fact, become the one subject of discussion. The person whom 
it more immediately concerned, had, prudently, if not modestly, 
withdrawn himself from the apartment, though in doing so, lie 
necessarily exposed himself to some encounter with the pitiless 
storm. The various groups had mingled themselves into one. 
The different smaller topics which before excited them, had 
given way before the magnitude of this, and each trooper began 
to feel his increased importance as his voice seemed necessary 
in the creation of so great a personage as his captain. 

So far, Darcy had no reason to be dissatisfied with his per- 
formances. Assisted by the Jamaica, his arguments had sunk 
deep into their souls. One after another had become a convert 
lo his views, and he was just about to flatter himself with the 
conviction that he should soon be rejoiced by the unanimous 
shout which should declare the nomination of their new captain, 
when another party, who before had said not a single word, now 
joined in the discussion after a manner of his own. This was no 
less important a personage than Muggs, the landlord. 

“ Counting sculps before you take ’em ! I wonder where the 
dickens you was brought up, Ensign Darcy. Here now you’re 
for making a new cappin, afore you know what’s come of the 


62 


THE SCOUT. 


old You reckon Ned Morton’s dead, do you? I reckon he’a 
alive and kicking. I don’t say so, mind me. I wouldn’t sweai 
sich a thing on Scripture book, but I’m so nigh sure of it, that 
I’d be willing to swear never agin to touch a drop of the stuff 
if so be he is not alive.” 

“ But, Muggs — if he’s alive, where is he ?” 

Grog’s wounds ! that’s easier asked than answered ; but if 
ve go to count for dead every chap that’s missing, I’d have to 
go in mourning mighty often for the whole troop of you, my 
chickens. It’s more reasonable that lie’s alive jist because wo 
don’t hear of him. We’d ha’ liearn of him soon enough if the 
rebels had a got him. We’d ha’ seen his hide upon a drum- 
head, and his own head upon a stump, and there wouldn’t ha 
been a dark corner on the Wateree that wouldn’t ha’ been ring- 
ing with the uproar about it. I tell you, my lads, that day that 
sees the death of Ned Morton, won’t be a quiet day in these 
parts. There’ll be more of a storm in these woods than is gal- 
loping through ’em now. If you don’t cry that day, the rebels 
will ; and let them lose what they may in the skrimmage, they’ll 
have a gain when they flatten him on his back !” 

“Ah, Muggs!” exclaimed Darcy, “I’m afraid you let your 
wishes blind you to the truth. I suppose you don’t know that 
we; got the captain’s horse, and he all bloody?” 

“ Don’t 1 know, and don’t I think, for that very reason too, 
that lie’s safe and sound, and will soon be among you. You found 
his horse, but not him. The horse was bloody. Well ! If the 
blood had been his, and vital blood, don’t you think you’d ha’ 
found the rider as well as the horse? But, perhaps, you didn’t 
stay long enough for the hunt. Folks say you all rode well 
enough that day. But if the cappin was mortal hurt and you" 
didn’t find him, are you sure the rebels did? I’m a thinking, 
not, by no manner of means. For, if they’d ha’ got him, wluu 
a hello-balloo we should have had. No, to my thinking, the 
cappin lost the horse a-purpose when lie found he couldn’t lose 
the rebels. The whole troop of Butler was upon him, swearing 
death agin him at every jump. Be sure now, Ned Morton left 
the critter to answer for him, and tuk to the swamp like a brown 
bear in September. I can’t feel as if he was dead ; and, if ho 


THE BLACK RIDERS OP CONGA REE. 6$ 

was, Ensign Darcy, I, for one, wouldn’t help in making a cappin 
out of any but one that comes out of the airtli. I’m for country 
born, if any.” 

“Well, Muggs, what objection do you find to the lieutenant V 

“ He’s not country born, I tell you.” 

“ But lie’s a good officer — there’s not a better in the country 
than Lieutenant Stockton.” 

“ That mout be, and then, agin, it moutn’t. I’m a-thinking 
Ben Williams is about as good a man as you could choose for 
your cappin, if so be that Ned Morton’s slipped his wind for 
sartin. I don’t see Ben here to-night — at this present — but 
look at him when he comes in, and you’ll say that’s the man to 
be a cappin. He’s a dragoon, now, among a thousand, and then, 
agin, he’s country born.” 

“ But, Muggs, I don’t see that your argument goes for much. 
An American born is a king’s man, and a British born is the 
same, and it’s natural, when they’re fighting on the same side, 
that a British born should have command just the same as the 
American.” 

“ I don’t see that it’s natural, and I don’t believe it. There’s 
a mighty difference between ’em to my thinking. As for your 
king’s men and British men, I’m one that wishes you had let 
us alone to fight it out among ourselves, rebel and loyal, jist as 
we stand. It was a sort of family quarrel, and would ha’ been 
soon over, if you hadn’t dipped a long spoon into our dish. 
They’d ha’ licked us or we’d ha’ licked them, and which ever 
way it went, we’d all lia’ been quiet long afore this. But here 
you come, with your Irishmen, and your Yagers, your Scotch- 
men and your Jarmans, and you’ve made the matter worse 
without helping yourselves. For, where are you ? As you 
whar ? No, by the poAvers ! You say Rawdon’s licked Greene. 
x It’s well enough to say so. But where’s Greene and where’s 
Rawdon ? If you ain’t liearn, I can tell you.” 

“ Well ?” from half a dozen. “ Let’s hear ! The news ! The 
news !” 

“Well! It’s not well — not well for you, at least ; and the 
sooner you’re gone from these parts the better. Rawdon that 
licked Greene is about to run from Greene that, he licked. I 


64 


THE SCOUT. 


have it from Scrub Heriot — little Scrub, you know — that 
they’ve had secret council in Camden, and all’s in a mist thar 

— the people half scared to death, for they say that they can’t 
get bacon or beans, and. Itawdon’s going to vackyate, and 
sw’ars, if he has to do so, he’ll make Camden sieh a blaze that 
it’ll light his way all down to Charleston. I’m a-looking out 
for the burst every night. That’s not all. Thar’s as fresh a 
gathering of the rebels along the Santee and Pedee under 
Marion, as if every fellow you had ever killed had got hi^ sculp 
back agin, and was jest as ready to kick as ever. Well, Tom 
Taylor’s brushing like a little breeze about Granby, and who 
but Sumter rides the road now from Ninety-Six to Augusta ? 
Who but he ? Cunningham darsn’t show his teeth along the 
track for fear they’ll be drawed through the back of his head. 
.Well, if this is enough to make you feel scarey, ain’t it enough 
to make Ned Morton keep close and hold, in his breath till he 
find a clean country before him. Don’t you think of making a 
new cappin till you’re sartin what’s come of the old ; and if it’s 
all over with him. then I say look out for another man among 
you that comes out of the nateral airtli. Ben Williams for me, 
lads, before any other.’’ 

“ Hurrah for Ben Williams !” was the maudlin cry of half a 
dozen. The lieutenant at this moment reappeared. Ilis glance 
was frowningly fixed upon the landlord, in a way to convince 
Muggs that he had not remained uninformed as to the particular 
course which the latter had taken. But it was clearly not his 
policy to show his anger in any more decided manner, and the 
cudgels were taken up for him by Darcy, who, during the 
various long speeches of the landlord had contrived to maintain 
a running fire among the men. He plied punch and persuasion 

— strong argument and strong drink — with equal industry; 
and- the generous tendencies of the party began everywhere to 
overflow. He felt his increasing strength, and proceeded to 
carry the attack into the enemy’s country. 

“ The truth is, Muggs, you have a grudge at the lieutenant 
ever since you had that brush together. You can’t so readily 
forget that ugly mark on your muzzle.” 

“Look you, Ensign Darcy, there’s something in what you 


THE BLACK RIDERS OF CON’OAREE. 


65 


say that a leetle turns upon my stomach ; for you see it’s not 
the truth. I have no more grudge agin Lieutenant Stockton 
than I have agin you. As for the mark you speak of, I do say, 
it did him no great credit to make such a mark on a one-armed - 
man ; though I’d lia’ paid him off with a side-wipe that would 
ha’ made him ’spectful enough to the one I had left, if' so be 
that Ben Williams hadn’t put in to save him. That was the 
only onfriendly thing that Ben ever done to me to my knowing. 
No ! I* han’t no grudges, thank God for all his blessings, but 
that’s iy. reason why I shouldn’t say what I do say, that Cappin 
Ned Morton’s the man for my money ; and, though I can’t have 
much to say in the business, seeing I ain’t no longer of the 
troop, yet if ’twas the last word I had to retickilate, I’d cry it 
for him. Here’s to Ned Morton, boys, living or dead.” 

“And here’s to Lieutenant Stockton, boys, and may he soon 
be captain of the Black Riders.” 

“ Hurrah for Stockton ! Hurrah !” was the now almost unan- 
imous cry, and Stockton, advancing, was about to speak, when 
the faint sounds of a whistle broke upon the night, imparting a 
drearier accent to the melancholy soughing of the wind without. 
The note, again repeated, brought every trooper to his feet. 
The cups were set down hastily — swords buckled on- — caps 
donned, and pistols examined. 

“To horse!” was the command of Stockton, and his cooli 
promptitude, shown on this occasion, was perhaps quite enough 
to justify the choice which the troop had been about to make 
of a new captain. “ To horse !” he cried, leading the way to 
the entrance, but ere he reached it, the door was thrown wide, 
and the ambitious lieutenant recoiled in consternation, as he en- 
countered, in the face of the new-comer, the stern visage of that 
very man, supposed to be dead, whom he equally feared and 
hated, and whose post he was so well disposed to fill. The 
chief of the 1 lack Riders stood suddenly among his followers, 
and the shouts for the new commander were almost forgotten in 
those which welcomed the old. But let us retrace our steps for 
a few moments, and bring our readers once more within hearing 
of the kinsmen. 


Kfi 


THE SCOUT. 


CHAPTER Y I 

FIRST FRUITS OF FREEDOM. 

It is not important to our narrative, in returning to the place 
and period when and where we left the rival kinsmen, that we 
should repeat the arguments which the younger employed in 
order to persuade the other to a more open and manly course 
of conduct in his political career. These arguments could he of 
one character only. The style in which they were urged, how- 
ever, became somewhat different, after the final interview which 
they had in the presence of the sturdy woodman. The dis- 
play which Supple Jack had made of the disguises which he 
had found upon the very road over which Edward Conway had 
fled, and about the very time when he had taken shelter in the 
swamp from the pursuit of Butler’s men, would, to any mind 
not absolutely anxious not to believe, have been conclusive of 
his guilt. Edward Conway felt it to be so in his own case, and 
readily concluded that Clarence would esteem it so. The few 
reflections, therefore, which time permitted him to make, were 
neither pleasant nor satisfactory ; and when he galloped off 
with his younger brother, he had half a doubt whether the latter 
did not meditate his sudden execution, as soon as they should 
be fairly concealed from the sight of the woodman. He knew 
enough of the character of Clarence to know that he would as 
soon destroy his own brother for treachery — nay, sooner — than 
an open enemy ; and the silence which he maintained, the stern, 
rigid expression of his features, and the reckless speed at which 
he seemed resolved to ride, contributed in no small degree to 
increase the apprehensions of the guilty man. For a brief 
space that ready w r it and prompt subterfuge, which had enabled 
him hitherto to play a various and very complicated game in 
life, with singular adroitness and success, seemed about to fail 


first fruits of freedom. 


67 


He felt his elasticity lessening fast — his confidence in himself 
declining ; his brain was heavy, his tongue flattened and thick. 

Besides, he was weaponless. There was no chance of success 
in any conflict, unless from his enemy’s generosity ; and upon 
that, in those days, the partisan who fought on either side made 
but few calculations. A club, the rudest mace, the roughest 
limb of the lithe hickory, became an object of desire to the mind 
of the conscious traitor at this moment. But he did not truly 
understand the nature of that mind and those principles, to 
which his own bore so little likeness. He little knew how strong 
and active were those doubts — the children of his wish — which 
were working in the bosom of Clarence Conway in his behalf. 

At length the latter drew up his steed, and exhibited a dispo- 
sition to stop. The rain, which by this time had become an in- 
cessant stream, had hitherto been almost unfelt by both the par- 
ties. The anxiety and sorrow of the one, and the apprehensions 
of the other, had rendered them equally insensible to the storm 
without. 

“ Edward Conway,” said the younger, “ let us alight here. 
Here we must separate ; and here I would speak to you, per- 
haps for the last time, as my father’s son.” 

Somewhat reassured, Edward Conway followed the example 
of his kinsman, and the two alighted among a group of hills, on 
the eastern side of which they found a partial protection from 
the storm, which was blowing from the west. But little did 
either need, at that moment, of shelter from its violence. Brief 
preparation sufficed to fasten their steeds beneath a close clump 
of foliage, and then followed the parting words of the younger, 
which had been so solemnly prefaced. 

“ Now, Edward Conway, my pledges to you are all fulfilled 
— my duties, too. I have done even more than was required at 
my hands by any of the ties of blood. I have been to you a 
brother, and you are now free.” 

“ You do not repent of it, Clarence ?” 

“Of that, it is fitting that I say nothing rashly. Time will 
show. But I need not say to you, Edward Conway, that the 
discovery of these disguises, under circumstances such as Jack 
Bannister detailed before you, has revived, in all their force, my 


68 


THE SCOUT. 


old suspicions*. God knows liovv much I have striven to set my 
soul against these suspicions. God only knows how much I 
would give could I bo sure that they were groundless. I dare 
not for my father’s sake believe them — I dare not for my own. 
And this dread to believe, Edward Conway, is, I fear, the only 
thing that has saved, and still saves you, from my blow. Bui 
for this, kinsman or no kinsman, your blood had been as freely 
shed by these hands, as if its sluices were drawn from the least 
known and basest puddle in existence.” 

“ I am at your mercy, Clarence Conway. I have no weapons. 
My arms are folded. I have already spoken when I should 
have been silent. I will say no more — nothing, certainly, to 
prevent your blow. Strike, if you will : if I can not convince 
you that 1 am true, I can at least show r you that I am fearless.” 

The wily kinsman knew well the easy mode to disarm his 
brother — to puzzle his judgment, if not to subdue his suspicions. 

“I have no such purpose !” exclaimed Clarence, chokingly. 
“ Would to heaven you would give me no occasion to advert to 
the possibility that I ever should have. But hear me, Edward 
Conway, ere we part. Do not deceive yourself — do not fancy 
that I am deceived by this show r of boldness. It did not need 
that you should assure me of your fearlessness. That I well 
knew. It is not your courage, but your candor, of which I am 
doubtful. The display of the one quality does not persuade me 
any the more of your possession of the other. We are now to 
part. You are free from this moment. You are also safe. Our 
men are no longer on the Wateree; — a few hours’ good riding 
will bring you, most probably, -within challenge of Watson’s sen- 
tinels. If you are the foe to your country, which they declare 
you, he is your friend. That you do not seek safety in our 
ranks, I need no proof. But, ere we part, let me repeat my 
warnings. Believe me, Edward Conway, dear to me as my 
father’s son, spare me, if you have it in your heart, the pain of 
t»eing your foe. Spare me the necessity of strife with you. If 

be that you are a loyalist, let us not meet. I implore it as 
she last favor which I shall ever ask at your hands ; and I im- 
plore it with a full heart. You know that we have not always 
been friends. You know that there are circumstances, not in 


FIRST FRUITS OF FRF, EDOM. 


69 


volving our principles, on which wc have already quarrelled, and 
which are of a nature but too well calculated to bring into activ- 
ity the wildest anger and the deadliest hate. But, however 
much we have been at strife — however I may have fancied that 
you have done me wrong — still, believe me, when I toll you 
that I have ever, in my cooler moments, striven to think of, 
and to serve you kindly. Henceforward our meeting must be 
on other terms. The cloud which hangs about your course — 
the suspicion which stains your character in the minds of others 
— have at last affected mine. We meet, hereafter, only as 
friends or foes. Your course must then be decided — your prin- 
ciples declared — your purpose known; and then, Edward Con- 
way, if it be as men declare, and as I dare not yet believe, that 
you are that traitor to your country — that you do lead that 
savage banditti which has left the print of their horses* hoofs, 
wherever they have trodden, in blood — then must our meeting 
be one of blood only ; and then, as surely as I shall feel all the 
shame of such a connection in my soul, shall I seek, by a strife 
without remorse, to atone equally to my father and to my coun- 
try for the crime and folly of his son. Fondly do I implore you, 
Edward Conway, to spare me this trial. Let our parting at this 
moment be final, unless we are to meet on terms more satisfac- 
tory to both.” 

The elder of the kinsmen, at this appeal, displayed more 
emotion, real or affected, than he had shown at any time during 
the interview. He strode to and fro among the tall trees, with 
hands clasped behind, eyes cast down upon the earth, and brows 
contracted. A single quiver might have been seen at moments 
among the muscles of his mouth. Neither of them seemed to 
heed the increasing weight of the tempest. Its roar was un- 
heard — its torrents fell without notice around and upon them. 
The reply of Edward Conway was at length spoken. He ap- 
proached his brother. He had subdued his emotions, whatever 

inierht have been their source. His words were few — his utter- 

© 

ance composed and calm. He extended his hand to Clarence 
as he spoke. 

“ Let us part, Clarence. It does not become me to make fur- 
ther assurances. To reply, as I should, to what you have said, 


70 


THE SCOUT. 


might ot ; ^robaoly to increase the width and depth of that 
chasm which seem; to lie between us. I can not say that I am 
satisfied with your tone, your temper, the position which you 
assume, and the right which you claim to direct, and warn, and 
counsel! — and when yeu threaten! — But enough! Let us 
part before anything be said which shall make you forget any- 
thing which you should remember, or me that I owe my life to 
your assistance, ^/hat ic said is said- -let it be forgotten. Let 
us part.” 

“ Ay, let us part : but let it not be forgotten, Edward On- 
way ?” 

“ True, true ! Let it not be forgotten. It shall not be forgot- 
ten. It can not be. It would not be easy for me, Clarence, to 
forget anything which has taken place in the last ten days of 
my life.” 

There was a latent signification in what was said by the speak- 
er to arouse new suspicions in the mind of the younger of the 
kinsmen. He saw, or fancied that he saw, a gleam of ferocity 
shine out from tlm eyes of his brother, and his own inflammable 
temper was about to Hare up anew. 

“ Do you threaten, Edward Conway ? Am I to understand 
you as speaking the language of defiance 

“ Understand me, Clarence, as speaking nothing which should 
not become a man and your brother.” 

The reply was equivocal. That it was so, was reason suffi- 
cient why Clarence Conway should hesitate to urge a matter 
which might only terminate in bringing their quarrel to a crisis. 

“ The sooner we separate the better,” was his only answer. 
“ Here,. Edward Conway, is one of my pistols. You shall not 
say I sent you forth without weapons to defend you, into a for 
est field possibly, with foes. The horse which you ride is a 
favorite. You have lost yours. Keep him till you are provi- 
ded. You can always find an opportunity to return him when 
you are prepared to do so ; and should you not, it will make no 
difference. Farewell: God be with you — but remember! — 
remember !’ 

The youth grasped the now reluctant hand of the elder Con- 
way ; wrung it with a soldier’s grasp — a pressure in which min 


FIRST FRUITS OF FREEDOM. 


71 


glerl feelings, all warm, nil conflicting, had equal utterance; — 
then, springing upon his steed, he dashed rapidly into the for- 
est and in a few moments was hidden from sight in its thickest 
mazes. 

“ Remember. Yes, Clarence Conway, I will remember. Cau 
I ever forget ! Can I ever forget the arrogance which presumes 
to counsel, to warn, and to threaten — to pry into my privacy — 
to examine my deeds — to denounce them with shame and threat- 
en them with vengeance. I will remember — to requite ! It 
shall not be always thus. The game will be in my hands ere 
many days, and I will play it as no gamester, with all upon the 
cast, ever yet played the game of life before. Without pause 
or pity — resolved and reckless — I will speed on to the prose- 
cution of my purposes, until my triumph is complete ! I must 
beware, must I l — I must account for my incomings and outgo- 
ings ] And why, forsooth 1 Because I am your father’s son. 
For the same reason do you beware ! I were no son of my 
father if I did not resent this insolence.” 

He had extricated his horse from the cover which concealed 
him while he was giving utterance to this soliloquy. The noble 
animal neighed and whinnied after his late companion. The 
plaintive appeal of the beast seemed to irritate his rider, whose 
passions, subjected to a restraint which he had found no less 
necessary than painful, were now seeking that vent which they 
had been denied for an unusual season ; and under their influ- 
ence he struck the animal over the nostril with the heavy hand 
of that hate which he fain would have bestowed upon his master. 

“Remember!” he muttered, as he leaped upon the saddle. 
“ I need no entreaty to this end, Clarence Conway. I must be 
a patriot at your bidding, and choose my side at your sugges- 
tion ; and forbear the woman of my heart in obedience to the 
same royal authority. We shall see ! — We shall see !” 

And, as he spoke, the sheeted tempest driving in his face the 
while — he shook his threatening hand in the direction which hi? 
brother had taken. Turning his horse’s head upon an opposite 
course, he then proceeded, though at a less rapid rate, to find 
that shelter, which he now, for the first time, began to conside* 
necessary. 


72 


THE SCOUT. 


It may have been ten minutes after their separation, when 
he heard a sound at a little distance which aroused his flagging 
attention. 

“ That wdiistle,” said he to himself, “ is very like our own 
It may he ! They should be here, if my safety were of any 
importance, and if that reptile Stockton would suffer them. That 
fellow is a spy upon me, sworn doubly to my destruction, if he 
can find the means. But let me find him tripping, and a shot 
gives him prompt dismissal. "Again ! — it is ! — they are here — 
the scouts are around me, and doubtlessly the whole troop is at 
Muggs’s this moment. There , he could do me no harm. Muggs 
is sworn my friend against all enemies, and he is true as any en- 
emy. — Again, the signal ! They shall have an echo.’* 

Speaking thus he replied in a sound similar to that which he 
heard, and an immediate response, almost at his elbow, satisfied 
him of the truth of his first impression. He drew up his steed, 
repeated the whistle, and was now answered by the swift tread 
of approaching horses. In a few moments, one, and then an- 
other — appeared in sight, and the captain of the Black Riders 
of Congaree once more found himself surrounded by his men. 

Their clamors, as soon as he was recognised, attested his pop- 
ularity among his troop. 

“Ha, Irby! — Ha, Burnet! Is it you? — and you, Gibbs — 
you Fisher : I rejoice to see you. Your hands, my good fellows. 
There! There! You are well — all well.” 

The confused questions and congratulations, all together, of 
the troopers, while they gave every pleasure to their chieftain, 
as convincing him of their fidelity, rendered unnecessary any 
attempt at answer or explanation. Nor did EdAvard Conway 
allow himself time for this. His words, though friendly enough, 
Avere few ; and devoted, seemingly, to the simple business of 
the troop. Captain Morton — for such was the name by which 
only he was knoAvn to them — with the quickness of a govern- 
ing instinct, derived from a few brief comprehensive questions, 
all that he desired to know in regard to their interests and posi- 
tion. He ascertained Avliere the main body Avould be found, and 
what had taken place during his absence ; and proceeded iD 
stantly to the reassumption of his command over them. 


FIRST FRUITS OF FREEDOM. 


73 


Enough of this, my good fellows. I will see to all this at 
Muggs’s. We have no time now for unnecessary matter. You 
have work on hand. Burnet, do you take with you Gibbs, Irby, 
and Fisher, Push your horses down for the Wateree by the 
first road running left of where we now stand. Do you know 
the route ? It leads by the clay diggings of the old Dutchman 
— the brick-burner — what’s his name 1” 

“ I know it, sir ” 

“ Enough, then. Take that road — put the steel into your 
nags, but send them forward. If you aro diligent you will over- 
take one of our worst enemies — a friend of Butler — a rebel — 
no less than Colonel Conway. Pursue and catch him. You 
can not fail to overtake him if you try for it. Take him pris- 
oner — alive, if you can. I particularly wish that you should 
have him alive ; but, remember, take him at every hazard. 
Living or dead, he must be ours.” 

The dragoon lingered for further orders. 

“ If you succeed in taking him, bring him on to Muggs’s. 
Give the signal before you reach his cabin, that there may be 
no surprise— -no mistake. Something depends on your observ- 
ance of this caution ; so, you will remember. Away, now, and 
ride for life.” 

Their obedience was su Tie: siitly prompt. In an instant they 
w*r< '*n their way, pursuing the Lack which Clarence had taken 
for the Wateree. 

“Now!” exclaimed the outlaw-chief, with exultation — “now 
there is some chance for vengeance. If they succeed in taking 
him alive, I will practise upon him to his utter blindness — I will 
do him no harm, unless a close lodging-house will do him harm, 
If they kill him — well, it is only one of those chances of wai 
which he voluntarily incurs : it is only the lower cast of the 
die. Yet, I trust it may not be so. I am not yet prepared for 
that. lie is my father’s son. He has stood beside me in danger, 
lie deserves that I should spare him. But, even for all this he 
may not he spared, if he is to triumph over me — to sway mo 
-with his arrogance— to achieve all victories in love as in war. 
In love! — God, what a strange nature is this of mine! How 
feeble am I when I think of her! And of her I can not help 

4 


T4 


THE SCOUT. 


but think; her beauty, her pride of soul — ay, even her arro- 
gance, I can think of with temper and with love. But liis — no, 
no ! He has spoken too keenly to my soul ; and when he for- 
bids that I should seek and see her, he forfeits every claim. Let 
them slay him, if they please ; it can only come to this at last.” 

And, with these words, striking with his open palm upon the 
neck of his horse, he drove him forward to Muggs’s. His en- 
trance we have already seen, and the wonder it excited : the 
wonder in all, the consternation in one. The troopers, with one 
voice, cried out for their ancient captain ; and Stockton, con- 
founded and defeated, could only hoarsely mingle his congratu- 
lations with the rest, in accents more faltering, and, as the outlaw 
captain well apprehended, with far less sincerity. 


CHAPTER VII. 

CAPTIVITY — FINESSE. 

Edward Morton bestowed upon bis second otHcer but a 
single glance, beneath which his eye fell and his soul became 
troubled. That glance was one cf equal scorn and suspicion. 
It led the treacherous subordinate, with the natural tendency of 
a guilty conscience, to appirhend that all his machinations had 
been discovered ; that some creature of his trust had proved 
treacherous ; and that he stood in the presence of one who had 
come with the full purpose of vengeance and of punishment. 

But, though secure as yet, in this respect, Lieutenant Stock- 
ton was not equally so in others, scarcely of less consequence. 
He had neglected, even if he had not betrayed, his trust. He 
had kept aloof from the place of danger, when liis aid was re- 
quired, and left his captain to all those risks — one of which has 
been already intimated to the reader — which naturally, followed 
a duty of great and peculiar exposure, to which the latter had 
devoted himself. Even when his risk had been taken, and the 
dangers incurred, Stockton had cither forborne that search after 


CAPTIVITY — FINESSE. 75 

his superior, or had so pursued it as to render his efforts almost 
ineffectual. 

But he had undertaken the toils of villany in vain, and with- 
out reaping any of its pleasant fruits. The return of his supe- 
rior, as it were from the grave, left him utterly discomfited. 
His rewards were as far off as ever from his hopes ; and, to his 
fears, his punishments were at hand. 

His apprehensions were not wholly without foundation. So 
soon as the chief of the Black Riders could relieve himself from 
the oppressive congratulations which encountered his safe resto- 
ration to his troop, he turned upon the lieutenant, and, with an 
indignation more just than prudent, declared his disapprobation 
of his conduct. 

“ 1 know not, Lieutenant Stockton, how you propose to satisfy 
Lord Rawdon for your failure to bring your men to Dukes’s, as 
1 ordered you ; but I shall certainly report to him your neglect 
in such language as shall speak my own opinion of it, however 
it may influence his. The consequences of your misconduct are 
scarcely to be computed. You involved me individually in an 
unnecessary risk of life, and lost a happy opportunity of striking 
one of the best blows in the cause of his majesty which has been 
stricken this campaign. The whole troop of the rebel Butler 
was in our hands ; they must have been annihilated but for your 
neglect — a neglect, too, which is wholly unaccountable, as I 
myself had prescribed every step in your progress, and waited 
for your coming with every confidence in the result.” 

“ I did not know, sir, that there was any prospect of doing 
anything below here, and I heard of a convoy on the road to 
General Greene ” 

“ Even that will not answer, Lieutenant Stockton. You were 
under orders for one duty, and presumed too greatly on your 
own judgment when you took the liberty of making a different 
disposition of the troop left to your guidance. You little dream, 
sii-, how nigh you were to rain. But a single hour saved you 
from falling in with all Sumter’s command, and putting an end 
for ever to your short-lived authority. And yet, sir, you are 
ambitious of sole command. You have your emissaries among 
the troop urging your fitness to lead them ; as if such proo s 


76 


THE SCOUT. 


were ever necessary to those who truly deserve them. Yout 
emissaries, sir, little know our men. It is enough for them to 
know that you left your leader in the hands of his enemies, at a 
time when all his risks were incurred for their safety and your 
own.” 

“ I have no emissaries, sir, for any such purpose,” replied the 
subordinate, sulkily ; his temper evidently rising from the un- 
pleasant exposure which was making before those who had oniy 
recently been so well tutored in his superior capacities. “ You 
do me injustice, sir — you have a prejudice against me. For — ” 

“ Prejudice, and against you /” was the scornful interruption 
of the chief. “ No more, sir ; I will not hear you farther. You 
shall have the privilege of being heard by those against whom 
you can urge no such imputations. Your defence shall bo 
made before a court martial. Yield up your sword, sir, to Mr. 
Barton.” 

The eye of the lieutenant, at this mortifying moment, caught 
that of the maimed veteran Muggs ; and the exulting satisfac- 
tion which was expressed by the latter was too much for his 
firmness. He drew the sword, but instead of tendering the liilt 
to the junior officer who had been commanded to receive it, con- 
fronted him with the point, exclaiming desperately — 

“ My life first ! I will not be disgraced before the men !” 

“Your life, then!” was the fierce exclamation of Morton, 
spoken with instant promptness, as he hurled the pistol with 
which Clarence Conway had provided him, full in the face of 
the insubordinate. At that same moment, the scarcely less 
rapid movement of Muggs, enabled him to grasp the offender 
about the body with his single arm. 

The blow of the pistol took effect, and the lieutenant would 
have been as completely prostrated, as he was stunned by it, 
had it not been for the supporting grasp of the landlord, which 
kept him from instantly falling. The blood streamed from 
his mouth and nostrils. Half conscious only, he strove to ad- 
vance, and his sword was partially uplifted as if to maintain with 
violence the desperate position which he had taken ; but, by 
this time, a dozen ready hands were about him. The weapon 
was wrested from his hold, and the wounded man thrust down 


CAPTIVITY — FINESSE. 


77 


upon the floor of the hovel, where he was held by the heavy 
knee of more than one of the dragoons, while others were found 
equally prompt to bind his arms. 

They were all willing to second the pjwceedings, howevei 
fearful, of a chief whose determination of character they well 
knew, and against whom they also felt they had themselves 
somewhat offended, in the ready acquiescence which most of 
them had given to the persuasive arguments and entreaties of 
Darcy. This latter person had now no reverence to display for 
the man in whose cause he had been only too oflicious. He 
was one of those moral vanes which obey the wind of circum- 
stances, and acquire that flexibility of habit, which, after a little 
while, leaves it impossible to make them fix anywhere. He 
did not, it is true, join in the clamor against his late ally ; but 
he kept sufficiently aloof from any display of sympathy. His 
own selfish fears counselled him to forbearance, and he was not 
ambitious of the crown of martyrdom in the cause of any prin- 
ciple so purely abstract as that of friendship. To him, the chief 
4f the Black Riders gave but a single look, which sufficiently 
.nformed him that his character was known and his conduct 
more titan suspected. The look of his superior had yet another 
meaning, and that was one of unmitigated contempt. 

Unlike the lieutenant, Darcy was sufficiently prudent, how- 
ever, not to display by glance, word, or action, the anger which 
jiG felt. He wisely subdued the resentment in his heart, prefer- 
ring to leave to time the work of retribution. But he did not, 
any more than Stockton, forego his desire for ultimate revenge. 
He was one of those who could wait, and whose patience, like 
that of the long unsatisfied creditor, served only to increase, by 
the usual interest process, the gross amount of satisfaction which 
must finally ensue. It was not now for the first time that he 
was compelled to experience the scorn of their mutual superior. 
It may be stated, in this place, that the alliance between Stock- 
ton and himself was quite as much the result of their equal 
sense of injury, at the hands of Morton, as because of any real 
sympathy between the parties. 

“ Take this man hence,” was the command of Morton, turning 
mce more his eyes ujjon the prostrate Stockton. “ Take him 


78 


THE SCOUT. 


hence, Sergeant Fisher — see him well bestowed — have liia 
wants attended to, but see, above all things, that he escape not. 
He has gone too far in his folly to be trusted much longer with 
himself, till we are done with him entirely. This, I trust, will 
soon be the case.” 

This order gave such a degree of satisfaction to the landlord, 
M uggs, that he found it impossible to conceal his delight. A 
roar of pleasure burst from his lips. 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho ! — I thought it would be so. — I knew it must 
come to this. I thought it a blasted bad sign from the begin- 
ning, when he was so willing to believe the cappin was turned 
into small meat, and the choppings not to be come at. There’s 
more of them sort of hawks in these parts, cappin, if ’twas worth 
any white man’s while to look after them.” 

The last sentence was spoken with particular reference to 
Ensign Darcy, and the eyes of the stout landlord were fixed 
lpon that person with an expression of equal triumph and 
threatening ; but neither Darcy nor Morton thought it advisable 
to perceive the occult signification of his glance. The occupa- 
tions of the latter, meanwhile, did not cease with the act of 
summary authority which we have witnessed. He called up to 
him an individual from his troop w r liose form and features some- 
what resembled his own — whose general intelligence might 
easily be conjectured from his features, and whose promptness 
• emed to justify the special notice of his captain. This person 
he addressed as Ben Williams — a person whom the landlord, 
Muggs, had designated, in a previous chapter, as the most fitting 
to succeed their missing leader in the event of his loss. That 
Morton himself entertained some such opinion, the course of 
events will show. 

“ Williams,” he said, after the removal of Stockton had been 
effected — “there is a game to play in 'which you must be chief 
actor. It is necessary that you should take my place, and seem 
for a while to be the leader of the Black Riders. The motive 
for this will be explained to you in time. Nay, more, it is ne- 
cessary that I should seem your prisoner. You will probably 
soon have a prisoner in fact, in wdiose sight I would also occupy 
the same situation. Do with me then as one. — Hark! — That 


CAPTIVITY — FINESSE. 


79 


is even now I, lie signal! — They will soon he here. Muggs, bai 
the entrance for a while, until everything is ready. Now, Wil- 
liams, he quick ; pass your lines about my arms and hind mo 
securely. Let one or more of your men watch me with pistols 
cocked, and show, all of you, the appearance of persons who 
have just made an important capture. I Avill tell you more 
hereafter.” 

The subordinate was too well accustomed to operations of 
the kind suggested, to offer any unnecessary scruple, or to 
need more precise directions. The outlaw Avas hound accord- 
ingly ; placed, as he desired, upon a hulk that stood in a corner 
of the wigwam, Avhile two black-faced troopers kept Avatch be- 
side him. The signal was repeated from Avithout; the parties, 
from the sound, being evidently close at hand. The chief of 
the outlaAvs Avhispered in the ear of his subordinate such farther 
instructions as Avere essential to his object. 

“ Keep me in this situation, in connection Avith the prisoner 
— should he be brought — for the space of an hour. Let us be 
left alone for that space of time. Let us then be separated. 
Avliile you come to me in private. We shall then be better able 
to determine for the future.” 

The hurried preparations being completed, the chief, now 
seemingly a closely-Avatched and strongly-guarded prisoner, 
gaA^e orders to throw open the entrance, and, in the meantime, 
subdued his features to the expression of a well-grounded dis- 
satisfaction AA'ith a situation equally unapprehended and painful. 

The capture of Clarence Conway Avas not such an easy mat- 
ter. It Avill be remembered that, Avhen he separated from his 
brother, under the influence of feelings of a most exciting nature, 
lie had given his horse a free spur, and dashed forward at full 
si»eed to regain his place of safety in the swamp. The rapidity 
of his start, had he continued at the same pace, would have 
secured him against pursuit. But, as his blood cooled, and his 
reflective mood assumed the ascendency, his speed was neces- 
sarily lessened 5 and, by the time that his treacherous kinsman 
was enabled to send the troopers in pursuit, his horse was suf- 
fered quietly to pick his Avay forward, in a gait most suited to 
his own sense of comfort, 


80 


THE SCOUT. 


The consequence was inevitable. The pursuers gained rapidly 
upon him, and owing to the noise occasioned by the rain pat- 
tering heavily upon the leaves about him, he did not hear the 
sound of their horses’ feet, until escape became difficult. At 
the moment when he became conscious of the pursuit, he was 
taught to perceive how small were his chances of escape from 
it. Suddenly, he beheld a strange horseman, on each side of 
him, while two others were pressing earnestly forward in the 
rear. None of them could have been fifty yards from him at 
the moment when he was first taught his danger. The keen- 
ness of the chase, the sable costume which the pursuers wore, 
left him in no doubt of their character as enemies ; and with 
just enough of the sense of danger to make him act decisively, 
the fearless partisan drew forth his pistol, cocked it without 
making any unnecessary display, and, at the same time, drove 
the rowel into the flanks of his steed. 

A keen eye sent forward upon the path which he was pursu- 
ing, enabled him to see that it was too closely covered with 
woods to allow him to continue much farther his present rate of 
flight, and with characteristic boldness, he resolved to turn his 
course to the right, where the path was less covered with under- 
growth, and on which his encounter would be with a single en- 
emy only. The conflict with him, he sanguinely trusted, might 
be ended before the others could come up. 

The action, with such a temperament as that of Clarence 
Conway, was simultaneous with the thought ; and a few mo- 
ments brought him upon the one opponent, while his sudden 
change of direction, served, for a brief space, to throw the others 
out. 

The trooper, whom he thus singled out for the struggle, was 
a man of coolness and courage, but one scarcely so strong of 
limb, or so well exercised in conflict, as the partisan. He readily 
comprehended the purpose of the latter, and his own resolution 
was taken to avoid the fight, if he could, and yet maintain his 
relative position, during the pursuit, with the enemy he chased. 
To dash aside from the track, yet to push forward at the same 
time, was his design ; at all events, to keep out of pistol-shoi 
himself, for a while at least, yet be able, at any moment, to 


CAPTIVITY -FINESSE. 


81 


bring bis opponent within range of his own weapon. Such a 
policy, by delaying the flight of the latter, until the whole party 
should come up, would render the capture inevitable. 

But he was not suffered to pursue this game at his own pleas- 
ure. The moment he swerved from the track, Conway dashed 
after him with increased earnestness, taking particular care to 
keep himself, meanwhile, between the individual and his friends. 
In this w'ay he seemed to drive the other before him, and, as 
his own speed was necessarily increased under these circumstan- 
ces, the man thus isolated became anxious about his position, and 
desirous to return. In a mutual struggle of this sort, the event 
depended upon the comparative ability of the two horses, and 
the adroitness, as horsemen, of the several riders. In both re- 
spects the advantage was with Conway ; and he might have 
controlled every movement of his enemy, but for the proximity 
of those who were now pressing on behind him. 

The moment became one of increasing anxiety. They were 
approaching rapidly niglier, and the disparity of force in their 
favor was too considerable to leave him a single hope of a 
successful issue should he be forced to an encounter with the 
whole of them. The wits of the partisan were all put into ac- 
tivity. lie soon saw that he must drive the individual before 
him entirely out of his path, or be forced to stand at bay against 
an attack in which defence was hopeless. His resolve was in- 
stantaneous ; and, reasonably calculating against the probability 
of any pistol-slmt from either taking effect while under vapid 
flight, and through the misty rain then driving into their mutual 
faces, he resolved to run down his enemy by the sheer physical 
powers of his horse, in defiance of the latter’s weapon and with- 
out seeking to use his own. He braced himself up for this ex 
ertion, and timed his movement fortunately, at a moment w^en 
a dense thicket presenting itself immediately in the way of th : 
man before him, rendered necessary a change in the direction 
of his flight. 

His reckless and sudden plunge forward discomposed the ene 
my, who found the partisan on his haunches at a time when t ; 
turn his steed became equally necessary and difficult,. To wheel 
aside from the thicket was the instinctive movement of the hors^ 

4 * 


THE SCOUT. 


himsell, wlio naturally inclined to the more open patli ; but, jusi 
under these circumstances, in liis agitation, (lie trooper endeav- 
ored to incline liis bridle hand to the opposite side, in order that 
he might employ his weapon. The conflict between his steed’s 
instinct and his own, rendered his aim ineffectual. liis pistol 
was emptied, but in vain ; and the rush of Conway’s horse im 
mediately followed. The shock of conflict with the more pow 
erful animal, precipitated the trooper, horse and man, to the 
earth, and the buoyant partisan went over him with the rapidity 
of a wind-current. 

A joyous shout attested his consciousness of safety — the 
outpourings of a spirit to which rapid action was always a 
delight, and strife itself nothing more than the exercise of fac- 
ulties which seemed to have been expressly adapted for all its 
issues of agility and strength. Secure of safety, Conway now 
dashed onward without any apprehension, and exulting in the 
fullest sen; e of safety ; but, in a moment after, he had shared 
the fortune of him he had just overthrown. A sudden de- 
scent of one of the Wateree hills was immediately before him, 
and in the increasing dimness of the twilight, and under the 
rapidity of his flight, ho did not observe that its declivity of 
yellow oUy l ad been freshly washed into a galley, liis h • se 
plungv l forward upon the deceptive and miry surface, and lost 
Ids footing. A series of ineffectual plunges which he made to 
recover himself, only brought the poor beast headlong to the 
base of the hill, where he lay half stunned and shivering. His 
girth had broken in the violent muscular efforts which lie made 
to arrest his fall, and liis rider, in spite of every exertion of skill 
and strength, was thrown forward, and fell, though with little 
injury, upon the yellow clay below. He had barely time to re- 
c<rver his feet, but not his horse, when the pursuers were upon 
him. Resistance, under existing circumstances, would have been 
worse than useless ; and with feelings of mortification, much bet- 
ter imagined than described, he yielded himself, with the best 
possible grace, to the hands of his captors. 


ROUGH tJvA.0 B AMONG THE RIDERS. 


88 


CHAPTER Y T j J 

ROUGH USAGE AMONG THE RIDERS. 

Nothing could exceed the surprise of Clarence Conway, 
when, conducted by his captors into the house of Muggs, he be- 
held the condition of his kinsman. His ardent and unsuspicious 
nature at once reproached him with those doubts which he had 
entertained of the fidelity of the latter. He now wondered at 
himself for the ready credence which he had been disposed to 
yield, on grounds so slight and unsatisfactory as they then ap- 
peared to be, to the imputations against one so near to him by 
blood ; and with the natural rapidity of the generous nature, he 
forgot, in his regrets for his own supposed errors, those of which 
his brother had, as he well knew, most certainly been guilty. 
Ho forgot that it was not less a reproach against Edward Con- 
way — even if he was misrepresented as friendly to the cause of 
the invader — that he had forborne to show that he was friend \y 
to that of his country ; and, in that moment of generous forget 
fulness, even the suspicious conduct of the fugitive, in relation to 
his own affair of heart, passed from his memory. 

“ Can it be ! — Is it you, Edward Conway, that I find in this 
predicament ?” were his first words when — the speaker being 
oqually secured — they were left alone together. 

“ You see me,” was the reply. “ My ill reputation with the 
one side does not, it appears, commend me to any favor with the 
other.” 

“And these men?” said Clarence, inquiringly. 

“ Are, it would seem, no other persons than your famous 
Black Riders. I have had a taste of their discipline already, 
and shall probably enjoy something more before they are done 
with me. It appears that they have discovered that I am as 
rabid a rebel as, by Butler's men, 1 was deemed a tory. They 
charge me with some small crimes — such as killing king’s men 


84 


THE SCOUT. 


and burning their houses, stabbing women arm roasting children 
— to all of which charges I have pleaded not guilty, though 
with very little chance of being believed. I can not complain, 
however, that they should be as incredulous in my behalf as my 
own father’s son.” 

“ Do not reproach me, Edward. Do me no injustice. You 
can not deny that circumstances were against you, so strong as 
almost to justify belief in the mind of your father himself. If 
any man ever struggled against conviction, I was that man.” 

“ Clarence Conway, you perhaps deceive yourself with that 
notion. But the truth is, your jealousy on the subject of Flora 
Middleton has made you only too ready to believe anything 
against me. But I will not reproach you. Nay, I have resolved, 
believe what you may, hereafter to say nothing in my defence 
or justification. I have done something too much of this already 
for my own sense of self-respect. Time must do the rest — I 
will do no more.” 

The generous nature of Clarence deeply felt these expres- 
sions. His wily kinsman well understood that nature, and de- 
liberately practised upon it. He listened to the explanations 
and assurances of the former with the doggedness of one 
who feels that he has an advantage, and shows himself reso- 
lute to keep it. Still he was too much of a proficient in 
the knowledge of human nature to overact the character. 
He spoke but few words. He seldom looked at his brother 
while he spoke, and an occasional half-suppressed sigh be- 
tokened the pains of a spirit conscious of the keenest wrong, 
yet too proud even to receive the atonement which reminds him 
of it An expression of sorrow and sadness, but not unkindness, 
prevailed over his features. His words, if they did not betoken 
despondency, yet conveyed a feeling almost of indifference to 
whatever might betide him. The language of his look seemed 
to say — 

“ Suspected by my best friends, my father’s son among them, 
it matters little what may now befall me. Let the enemy do 
his worst. I care not for these bonds — I care for nothing that 
he can do.” 

Nothing, to the noble heart, is so afflicting as the conscious 


ROUGH USAGE AMONG THE RIDERS. 


85 


ness of having done injustice ; and to witness the suffering of 
another, in consequence of our injustice, is one of the most ex- 
cruciating of human miseries to a nature of this order. Such 
was the pang at this moment in the bosom of Clarence Conway. 
He renewed his efforts to soothe and to appease the resentments 
of his kinsman, with all the solicitude of truth. 

“ Believe me, Edward, I could not well think otherwise than 
I have thought, or do other than I have done. You surely can 
not deny that you placed yourself in a false position. It would 
have been wonderful, indeed, if your course had not incurred 
suspicion.” 

“ True friendship seldom suspects, and is the last to yield to 
the current, when its course hears against the breast it loves. 
But let us say no more on this subject, Clarence. It has always 
been a painful one to me ; and just now, passing, as I may say, 
from one sort of bondage to another, it is particularly so. It is, 
perhaps, unnecessary, situated as we are, that we should any 
longer refer to it. The doubts of the past may be as nothing to 
the dangers of the future. If this banditti be as you have de- 
scribed them, we shall have little time allowed us to discuss 
the past ; and, for the future ! ” 

He paused. 

“ And yet, believe me, Edward, it makes me far happier to soe 
you in these bonds, subjected to ail the dangers which they im- 
ply, than to suffer from the accursed suspicion that you were the 
leader of this banditti.” 

“ I thank you — indeed I thank you very much- — for nothing ! 
It may surprise you to hear me say that your situation yields 
me no pleasure. Your sources of happiness and congratulation 
strike me as being very peculiar.” 

“ Edward Conway, why will you misunderstand me V 9 
“ Do I ?” 

“ Surely. What have I said to make you speak so bitterly V 1 

‘‘Nothing, perhaps; — but just now, Clarence, my thoughts 
*ud feelings are rather bitter than sweet, and may be supposed 
likely to impart something of their taste to what I say. But I 
begged that we might forbear the subject — all subjects — at 
this time ; for the very reason that I feared something might be 


86 


THE SCOUT. 


spoken by one or both which would make us think more un- 
kindly of each other than before — which would increase the 
gulf between us.” 

“ I think not unkindly of you, Edward. I regret what I have 
spoken unkindly, though under circumstances which, I still in- 
sist, might justify the worst suspicion in the mind of the best of 
friends. There is no gulf between us now, Edward Conway.” 

“ Ay, but there is; an impassable one for both — a barrier 
which we have built up with mutual industry, and which must 
stand between us for ever. Know you Flora Middleton ? Ha ! 
Do you understand me now, Clarence Conway ? I see you do 
— you are silent.” 

Clarence was, indeed, silent. Painful was the conviction that 
made him so. He felt the truth of what his brother had spoken. 
He felt that there was a gulf between them ; and he felt also 
that the look and manner of his kinsman, while he spoke the 
name, together with the tone of voice in which it was spoken, 
had most unaccountably, and most immeasurably, enlarged that 
gulf. What could be the meaning of this ? What was that 
mysterious antipathy of soul which could comprehend so instantly 
the instinct hate and bitterness in that of another ? Clarence 
felt at this moment that, though his suspicions of Edward Con- 
way, as the chief of the Black Riders, were all dissipated by the 
position in which he found him, yet ho loved him still less than 
before. The tie of blood was weakened yet more than ever, 
ard its secret currents were boiling up in either breast, with 
suppressed but increasing hostility. 

The pause was long and painful which ensue ! between them. 
At length Clarence broke the silence. Ibis manner was sub- 
dued, but the soul within him was strengthened. The course 
of his kinsman had not continued to its close as judicious as it 
coemed at the beginning. It had been a wiser policy had he 
forborne even the intimation of reproach — had he assui&ed an 
aspect of greater kindness and love toward his companion in 
misfortime, and striveu, by a studious display of cheerfulness, to 
prove to his brother that he was only apprehensive lest the situ- 
ation in which the latter had found him might tend too much to 
his ovn self-reproach. 


ROUGH USAGE AMONG THE RIDERS. 


87 


Such would have been the course ,l a generous foe. Suci; 
should have been the course of one toward a generous friend. 
Forbearance, at such a moment, would have been the very best 
proof of the presence of a real kindness. But it was in this very 
particular that the mind of Edward Conway was weak, lie 
was too selfish a man to know what magnanimity is. He did 
not sufficiently comprehend the nature of the man he addressed ; 
and, though the situation in which the latter found him had its 
effect, yet the policy, which lie subsequently pursued, most ef- 
fectually defeated many of the moral advantages which must 
have resulted to him, in the mind of his brother, from a more 
liberal train of conduct. 

The reference to Flora Middleton placed Clarence on his 
guard. It reminded him that there were more grounds of dif- 
ference between himself and kinsman than he had been just 
before prepared to remember. It reminded him that Edward 
Conway had been guilty of a mean evasion, very like a false- 
hood, in speaking of this lady ; and this remembrance revived 
all his former personal distrusts, however hushed now might be 
all such as were purely political. Edward Conway discovered 
that he had made a false move in the game the moment that his 
brother resumed his speech. He was sagacious enough to per- 
ceive his error, though he vainly then might have striven to 
repair it. Clarence, meanwhile, proceeded as follows, with a 
grave severity of manner, which proved that, on one subject at 
least, he could neither be abused nor trifled with. 

“ You have named Flora Middleton, Edward Conway. With 
me that name is sacred. I owe it to my own feelings, as well 
as to her worth, that it should not be spoken with irreverence. 
What purpose do you propose by naming her to me, at this mo- 
ment, and with such a suggestion?” 

The outlaw assumed a bolder tone and a higher position than 
he took when the same subject was discussed between them in 
the swamp. There was an air of defiance in his manner, as he 
replied, which aroused all the gall in his brother’s bosom. 

“ Am 1 to tell you now, for the first time, Clarence Conway 
that I love Flora Middleton ?” 

“ Ha!— Is it so?— Well!” 


88 


THE SCOUT 


“ It is even so ! I love Flora Middleton — as i long have 
loved her.” 

“ You are bold, Edward Conway ! Am I to understand from 
this that you propose to urge your claims ?” 

“ One does not usually entertain such feelings without some 
hope to gratify them; and I claim to possess all the ordinary 
desires and expectations of humanity.” 

“ Be it so, then, Edward Conway,” replied Clarence, with a 
strong effort at composure. “But,” he added, “ if I mistake 
not, there was an understanding between us on this subject. 
You — ” 

“ Ay, ay, to pacify you — to avoid strife with my father’s son, 
Clarence Conway, I made some foolisli promise to subdue my 
own feelings out of respect to yours — some weak and unmanly 
concessions !” 

“ Well ! Have you now resolved -otherwise 1” 

“Why, the truth is, Clarence, it is something ridiculous for 
either of us to be talking of our future purposes, wnh- m such a 
predicament as this. Perhaps we had better be at. oar prayers, 
preparing for the lvorst. If half be true that is said of these 
Black Riders, a short shrift and a sure cord are the most prob- 
able of their gifts. We need not quarrel about a woman on the 
edge of the grave.” 

“ Were death sure, and at hand, Edward Conway, my prin- 
ciples should be equally certain, and expressed without fear 
Am I to understand that you have resolved to disregard my 
superior claims, and to pursue Flora Middleton with your atten- 
tions r 

“ Your superior claims, Clarence,” replied the other, “ consist 
simply, if I understand the matter rightly, in your having seen 
the lady before myself, and by so many months only having the 
start of me in our mutual admiration of her charms. I have not 
learned that she has given you to suppose that she regards you 
with more favor than she does myself.” 

A warm flush passed over the before pale features of Clarence 
Conway. His lip was agitated, and its quivering only suppressed 
by a strong effort. 

“ Enough, sir !” he exclaimed — “ we understand each other.*' 


ROUGH USAGE AMOKu rHE RIDERS. 


80 


There was probably some little mockery in the mood of Ed- 
ward Conway as he urged the matter to a further point. 

“ But let me know, Clarence. Something of my own course 
will certainly depend — that is, if I am ever again free from the 

clutches of these — ” The sentence was left unfinished by the 

speaker, as if through an apprehension that he might have more 
auditors than the one he addressed. He renewed the sentence, 
cautiously omitting the offensive member : — 

“ Something of my course, Clarence, will surely depend on 
my knowledge of your claims. If they are superior to mine, or 
to those of a thousand others — if she has given you to under- 
stand that she has a preference ” 

The flush increased upon the check of the younger kinsman 
as he replied — 

“ Let me do her justice, sir. It is with some sense of shame 
that I speak again of her in a discussion cucli as this. Miss 
Middleton has given me no claim — she has shown me no prefer- 
ence — such as I could build upon for an instant. But, my claim 
was on you, Edward Conway. You were earned by me to her 
dwelling. She was made known to you by me ; and, before 
this was done, I had declared to you my own deep interest in 
her. You saw into the secret and sacred plans of my heart — 
you heard from my own lips the extent of my affection for her ; 
and — but I can speak no more of this without anger, aftd anger 
here is impotence. Take your course, Edward Conway, and 
assert your desires as you may. Henceforward I understand 
you, and on this subject beg to be silent.” 

Edward Conway was not unwilling that further discussion of 
this subject should cease. He had effected the object which he 
aimed at when he broached it ; and tacitly it was felt by both 
parties, that words were no longer satisfactory, as weapons, in 
such an argument as theirs. The silence was unbroken by 
either, and the two fettered captives sat apart, their eyes no 
longer meeting. 

The hour had elapsed which, by the previous instructions of 
the outlaw chief, had been accorded to the interview between 
himself and kinsman. The object of his finesse had, as he be- 
lieved, been fully answered ; and, at this stage of the interview. 


90 


THE SCOUT. 


Williams his counterfeit presentment made his appearance, with 
all due terrors of authority, clad in sable, savage in hair and 
beard, with a brow clothed in gloomy and stern purposes, and as 
if prepared to pronounce the doom which the fearful reputation 
of the Black Riders might well have counselled the innocent 
prisoner to expect. But something further of the farce remained 
to be played out, and Clarence Conway was the curious witness 
to a long examination to which his fellow-prisoner was subject- 
ed, the object of which seemed to be to establish the fact that. 
Edward Conway was himself a most inveterate rebel. A part 
of this examination may be given. 

“ You do not deny that your name is Conway ?” 

“ I do not,” was the reply. 

“ Colonel Conway, of Sumter’s Brigade ?” 

“ I am Colonel Conway, of Sumter’s Brigade,” said Clarence, 
interposing. 

“ Time enough to answer for yourself when you are asked ! 
— that story won’t go down with us, my good fellow,” sternly 
exclaimed the acting chief of the banditti. “ Shumway,” he ex- 
claimed, turning to a subordinate, “ why the d — 1 were these 
d — d rebels put together ? They have been cooking up a story 
between them, and hanging now will hardly get the truth out 
of either ! We’ll see what Muggs can tell us. He should know 
this fellow Conway.” 

“ Muggs has gone to bed, sir.” 

“ Wake him up and turn him out, at the invitation of a rope’s 
end. I’m suspicious that Muggs is half a rebel himself, he’s 
lived so long in this rascally neighborhood, and must be looked 
after.” 

Shumway disappeared, and the examination proceeded. 

“ I)o you still deny that you are Colonel Conway, of Sumter's 
brigade? Beware now of your answer — we have other rebels 
to confront you with.” 

The question was still addressed to the elder of the kinsmen. 
His reply was made with grave composure. “ I do. My name is 
Conway, as I declared to you before ; but I am not of Sumter’s 
brigade, nor of any brigade. I am not a colonel, and never hope 
to be made one.” 


ROUGH USAGE AMONG THE RIDERS. 


91 


Indeed ! but you hope to get off with that d — d pack of lies, 
do you, in spite of all the evidence against you ? But you are 
mistaken. 1 wouldn’t give a continental copper for the safety 
of your skin, colonel.” 

“ If the commission of Governor Rutledge of South Carolina 
will he any evidence to show who is, and who is not, Colonel 
Conway, of Sumter’s brigade,” was the second interruption of 
Clarence, “ that commission will be found in my pocket.” 

“And what will that prove, you d — d rebel, but that it has 
been slipped from one to the other as you each wanted it. Your 
shifting commissions are well known make-shifts among you, and 
we know too well their value to put much faith in them. But 
can you guess, my good fellow,” turning to Clarence, “you, who 
are so anxious to prove yourself a colonel — can you guess what 
it will cost you to establish the fact? I3o you know that a 
swinging bough will be your first halting-place, and your first 
bow shall be made to a halter ?” 

“ If you think to terrify me by such threats, you are mistaken 
in your man,” replied Clarence, with features which amply de- 
noted the wholesale scorn within his bosom ; “ and if you dare to 
carry your threats into execution, you as little know the men of 
Sumter’s brigade, the meanest of whom would promptly peril his 
own life to exact fearful anff ‘bloody retribution for the deed. I 
am Colonel Conway, and, dog of a tory, I defy you. Do your 
worst. I know you dare do nothing of the sort you threaten. 
1 defy and spit upon you.” 

The face of the outlaw blackened : — Clarence rose to his feet 

“Ha! think you so? We shall see. Shumway, Frink, Gas- 
eon ! — you three are enough to saddle this fiery rebel to his last 
horso. Noose him, you slow moving scoundrels, to the nearest 
sapling, and let him grow wiser in the wind. To your work, 
villains — away !” 

The hands of more than one of the ruffians were already on 
the shoulders of the partisan. Though shocked at the seeming 
certainty of a deed which he had not been willing to believe 
they would venture to execute, he yet preserved the fearless 
aspect which he had heretofore shown. His lips still uttered 
the language of defiance. He made no concessions, he asked 


92 


THE SCOUT. 


for no delay — lie simply denounced against them the vengeance 
of his command, and that of his reckless commander, whose fiery 
energy of soul and rapidity of execution they well knew. 

His language tended still farther to exasperate the person wh- 
acted in the capacity of the outlaw chief. Furiously, as if to 
second the subordinates in the awful duty in which they seemed 
to him to linger, he grasped the throat of Clarence Conway with 
his own hands, and proceeded to drag him forward. He did not 
see the significant gesture of head, glance of eye, and impatient 
movement of Edward Conway, while he thundered out his com- 
mands and curses. The latter could not, while seeking to pre- 
serve the new character in which lie had placed himself, take 
any more decided means to make his wishes understood ; and it 
was with feelings of apprehension and annoyance, new even to 
himself, that he beheld the prompt savage, to whom he had in- 
trusted the temporary command, about to perform a deed which 
a secret and mysterious something in his soul would not permit 
him to authorize or behold, however much he might have been 
willing to reap its pleasant fruits when done. 

There was evidently no faltering in the fearful purpose of his 
representative. Everything was serious. He was too familiar 
with such deeds to make him at all heedful of consequences ; 
and the proud bearing of the youth ; the unmitigated scorn in 
his looks and language ; the hateful words which he had used, 
and the threats which he had denounced ; while they exaspera- 
ted all around, almost maddened the ruffian in command, tc 
whom such defiance was new, and with whom the taking of life 
was a circumstance equally familiar and indifferent. 

“ Three minutes for prayer is all the grace I give him!” he 
cried, hoarsely, as he helped the subordinates to drag the des- 
tined victim toward the door. 

These were the last words he was allowed to utter. Hg 
himself was not allowed a single minute. The speech was 
scarcely spoken, when ho fell prostrate on his face, stricken in 
the mouth by a rifle-bullet, which entered through an aperture 
in the wall opposite. His blood and brains bespattered the 
breast of Clarence Conway whom his falling body also bore to 
the floor of the apartment. 


A CRISIS. 


93 


\ wild sliout from without followed the shot, and rose, strong 
and piercing, above all the clamor within. In that shout Clar- 
ence could not doubt that he heard the manly voice of the faith- 
ful Jack Bannister, and the deed spoke for itself. It could have 
been the deed of a friend only. 


CHAPTER IX 

A CRISIS. 

The sensation produced on all the parties by this sudden 
stroke of retribution was indescribable. The fate of Clarence 
Conway was suspended for a while. The executioners stood 
aghast. They relaxed their hold upon the prisoner ; all their 
powers being seemingly paralyzed in amazement * and alarm. 
Tacitly, every eye, with the instinct of an ancient habit, was 
turned upon Edward Conway. He, too, had partaken, to a 
large degree, of the excitement of the scene. The old habits 
of command reobtained their ascendency. He forgot, for the 
instant, the novel position in which he stood; the assumed 
character which he played, and all the grave mummery of his 
bondage and disguise. Starting to his feet, when the first feel- 
ing of surprise had passed, he shouted aloud in the language of 
authority. 

“ Away, knaves, and follow. Why do you gape and loiter 1 
Pursue the assassin. Let him not escape you ! Away !” 

lie was obeyed by all the troopers present. They rushed 
headlong from the dwelling with a sanguinary shout. The two 
brothers, still bound, were left alone together. The paroxysm 
of passion in the one was over. He was' recalled to a conscious- 
ness of the wily game he had been playing the moment that he 
started to his feet and issued his commands. The pressure of 
the tight cords upon his arms, when he would have extended 
them to his men, brought back all his memories. In an instant 
he felt his error, and apprehended the consequences. His eye 


94 


THE SCOUT. 


naturally turned in search of his kinsman, who stood erect, a 
surprised but calm spectator. 

He had witnessed the action, had' seen the excitement, and 
heard the language of Edward Conway ; but these did not 
seem to him too extravagant for the temper of one easily moved, 
who was yet innocent of any improper connection with the 
criminals. The circumstances which had taken place were 
sufficiently exciting to account for these ebullitions, without 
awakening any suspicions of the truth. It is true that the 
fierce command, so familiarly addressed to the robbers by their 
prisoner, did seem strange enough to the unsuspecting Clarence ; 
but even this was natural enough. Nor was it less so that they 
should so readily obey orders coming from any lips which, to 
them, conveyed so correctly the instructions to their duty. Be- 
sides, the clamor, the uproar, the confusion and hubbub of the 
scene, not to speak of those conflicting emotions under which 
Clarence Conway suffered at a moment so full, seemingly, of 
the last peril to himself, served to distract his senses and impair 
the just powers of judgment in his mind. He felt that Edward 
Conway had acted unexpectedly — had shown a singular activi- 
ty which did not seem exactly called for, and was scarce due to 
those in whose behalf it was displayed ; but, making due allow- 
ance for the different effects of fright and excitement upon dif- 
ferent temperaments, he did not regard his conduct as strange 
or unnatural, however unnecessary it might seem, and, perhaps, 
impolitic. It was the first thought in his mind that Edward 
Conway, in his great agitation, did not seem to recollect that 
the assassination which had taken place was probably the only 
event which could then have sa^ed his life. 

These reflections did not occur to the mind of the latter. ' 
Conscious of equal guilt and indiscretion, the apprehensions of 
Edward Conway were all awakened for his secret. The lower- 
ing and suspicious glance which he watched in the eye of his 
kinsman, and which had its origin in a portion of the previous 
conference between tlmm, he was at once ready to ascribe tr 
the discovery, by the latter, of his own criminal connection with 
the outlaws. In his anxiety, he was not aware that he had not 
said enough to declare his trim charader — that he had only 


A CRISIS. 


95 


used the language which any citizen might employ without censure, 
on beholding the performance, by another, of any sudden and atro- 
cious outrage. 

So impressed was he with the conviction that he had betrayed 
the whole truth by his imprudence, that the resolution in his 
mind was partly formed to declare himself boldly and bid de- 
fiance to all consequences. What had he now to fear? was 
his natural reflection. Why should he strive longer to keep 
terms with one with w’hom he must inevitably break in the end? 
Clarence Conway was his rival, his enemy, and was in his power. 
He had already felt the humiliation resulting from the unbecoming 
equivocal positions in which he stood to him. He had bowed to 
him, when he felt how much more grateful would be the mood to 
battle with him. He had displayed the smile of conciliation, when, 
in his heart, he felt all the bitterness of dislike and hate. Why 
should he longer seek to maintain appearances with one from whom 
he now had seemingly nothing to fear? Why not, at once, by a 
bold avowal of his course, justify, in the language of defiance, the 
hostile position in which he stood equally to his country and his 
kinsman? 

Such a course would amply account for the past ; and, in 
those arguments by which the loyalists of that day found a 
sanction for their adherence to the mother-country, he might 
well claim all the rights of position due to one, whatever may 
be his errors of judgment, who draws his sword in behalf of his 
principles. 

Such were some of the arguments drawn from the seeming neces- 
sity of the case, which rapidly passed through the mind of Edward 
Conway as he watched the play of mingled surprise and disquiet in 
the features of his kinsman. But they were not conclusive. They 
were still combated by the last lingering sentiments of humanity and 
blood. Clarence Conway was still his kinsman, and more than that, 
he owed him a life. 

"‘Besides,” was the language of his second thoughts, “his myr- 
midons even now may be around us. Let us first see the result of this 
pursuit.” 

New apprehensions arose from this last reflection. That the 
followers of Clarence Conway were not far off was the very 


THE SCOUT. 


9 fi 

natural reflection of every mind, after the sudden and fearful 
death of him who had been the chosen representative of theii 
chief. That the shot which slew Williams was meant for the chief 
of the Black Riders, was his own reflection ; and it counselled 
continued prudence for the present. The game which he pro- 
posed in the prosecuting his purposes equally with Flora Middle- 
ton and his brother, was best promoted by his present forbear- 
ance — by his still continuing, at least while in the presence of 
Clarence Conway, to preserve his doubtful position as a prisoner. 

He sank back, accordingly, upon the bulk from which he had 
arisen in the first moment of the alarm. His efforts were 
addressed to the task of composing his features, and assuming 
the subdued aspect of one who Stands in equal doubt and ap- 
prehension of his fate. Some moments of anxiety elapsed, in 
which neither of the kinsmen spoke. Clarence, in the mean- 
time, had also resumed his seat. He no longer looked toward 
his companion. His heart was filled with apprehension, in which 
his own fate had no concern. He trembled now for the life of 
the faithful woodman — for he did not doubt that it was he — 
who had tracked his footsteps, and so promptly interfered at the 
hazard of his own life, to exact that of his enemy. The senses 
of the youth were sharpened to an intense keenness. He could 
hear the distant clamors of the hunt without. The shouts and 
shrieks of rage, breaking, as they rose, far above the rush of 
the winds and the monotonous patterings of the rain. He was 
roused from an attention at once painful and unavoidable by the 
accents of his kinsman. 

“Clarence!” said the latter, “this is a terrible affair — the 
murder of this man !” 

“ Scarcely so terrible to me w r as the cold reply — “ it pro- 
longed my life — the wretch would have murdered me, and I 
look upon his. corse without horror or regret !” 

“ Impossible ! His purpose was only to intimidate — he would 
never have dared the commission of such a crime.” 

“ You are yet to learn the deeds of the Black Riders ; vou 
know nol how much such outlawed wretches will dare in the 
very desperation of their ho« ” 

“That was a dreaunu uoeo, however; — so swift, so sudden, 


A ORTSIS. 97 

I confess it almost unmanned me. I felt desperate with terror 
I know not what I said.” 

“ So I thought,” replied Clarence, “ for you actually shouted 
to the wretches to pursue the murderer, and he, too, that noble 
fellow, Jack Bannister. He has stood between me and death 
before. You also, Edward Conway, owe him a life.” 

“ Do you think it was he, Clarence V* 

“ 1 have no doubt of it. I am sure of his halloo.” 

“ If they catch him ! — ” 

“ God forbid that they should !” 

“ If they should not, we shall probably pay for his boldness 
They will wreak their fury on our heads, if they be the bloody 
wretches that you describe them.” 

“ I am prepared for the worst. I am their prisoner, but I 
fear nothing. I, at least, Edward Conway, am somewhat pro- 
tected by the rights and usages of war ; but you — ” 

“ Much good did these rights promise you a few minutes past,” 
said the other, sarcastically, “unless my conjecture be the right 
one. According to your notion, precious little respect would 
these men have had for the usages of war. Their own usages, 
by your own showing, have long since legitimated hanging and 
burning, and such small practices.” 

“ I should not have perished unavenged. Nay, you see al- 
ready how closely the avenger follows upon the footsteps of the 
criminal. For every drop of my blood shed unlawfully, there 
would be a fearful drain from the heart of every prisoner in the 
hands of Sumter.” 

“ That, methinks, were a sorry satisfaction To me, I con- 
fess, it would afford very little pleasure to be told, while I am 
swinging, that some one or more of my enemies will share my 
fate in order that the balance-sheet between the two armies may 
be struck to their mutual satisfaction. My manes would, on the 
other side of Styx, derive small comfort from beholding the 
ghost of my foe following close behind me, with a neck having 
a like ugly twist with my own, which he admits having received 
on my account.” 

“The jest is a bald one that’s born under the gallows,” m 
piiel Clarence, gravely, with a whig proverb. 


08 


THE SCOUT. 


“ Ay, but T am not there yet,” replied the other ; “ and, witl 
God’s blessing, I hope that the tree and day are equally la' 
distant which shall witness such an unhappy suspension of mj 
limbo and labors.” 

“ If 1 stand in such peril,” replied Clarence Conway, “hold- 
ing as T do a commission from the state authorities, I can not 
understand how it can be that you should escape, having, un- 
happily, no such sanction, and being so much more in danger 
from their suspicion. I sincerely trust that you will escape, 
Edward Conway ; but you see the perilous circumstances in 
which you are placed by your unhappy neglect of the proper 
duties to your country and yourself.” 

“ I am afraid, Clarence, that your commission will hardly 
prevail upon them to make any difference in their treatment of 
us.” 

“ And yet, I wish to Heaven Edward Conway, that both of 
my father’s sons were equally well provided.” 

“ Do you really wish it, Clarence ]” 

“ From my soul I do,” was the reply. “ Gladly now, could 
I do so, would I place my commission in your hands.” 

“ Indeed ! would you do this, Clarence Conway ] Are you 
serious ]” demanded the elder kinsman, with looks of consider 
able interest and surprise. 

“ Serious ! Do you know me so little as to make such an 
inquiry! Would I trifle at such a moment with any man] — 
Could I trifle so with a kinsman ] No ! Bound as we both are, 
the desire is idle enough ; but, could it be done, Edward Con- 
way, freely would I place the parchment in your hands with all 
the privileges whfch belong to it.” 

“ And you ” 

“Would take my risk — would defy them to the last— and 
rely upon their fears of that justice which would certainly follow 
any attempt upon my life while I remain their prisoner.” 

The chief of the Black Riders rose from the bulk on which 
he had been seated, and twice, thrice, he paced the apartment 
without speaking. Deep shadows passed over his countenance, 
and low muttering sounds, which were not words, escaped at 
moments through his closed teeth. He seemed to be struggling 


A CRISIS. 


99 


*<th Si.me new emotion, which baffled his control and judgment 
equally At length he stopped short in front of his kinsman. 
He had succeeded in composing his features, which were now 
mantled with a smile. 

“ Claience,” he exclaimed, “you are a very generous fellow. 
You always were, even in your boyhood. Your proffer to me 
loses nothing of its liberality because it would be injurious rather 
than beneficial to me. Your intention is everything. But, 1 
can not accept your gift — it would be to me the shirt of Nessus. 
It would be my death, and if you take my counsel you will say 
nothing of it. Better by far had you left it in the swamp 
Have you forgotten that I am here, under these very bonds, 
charged with no worse offence than that of being Colonel Clar- 
ence Conway. If I could be secure from this imputation, per- 
haps I -would escape with no worse evil than the scars they 
have given me.” 

“ True, true ! These after matters had driven the other from 
my thought. I recollect — I had even given my testimony on 
ha* head. If it will serve you, I will again repeat the truth, 
though they hew me down the next instant.” 

“ Say nothing rashly, Clarence. You are as excessively bold 
as you are generous — every way an extravagant man. Sup- 
press your commission, if you can, for I’m doubtful if it can do 
you any good with these people, and it may do you serious 
harm. They make little heed, I fear, of law and parchment 
But hark! The shouting becomes nearer and louder. They 
are returning; they have taken the assassin !” 

“God forbid!” was the involuntary ejaculation of Clarence, 
while ?v cold shudder passed over his frame at the apprehension 
“ God forbid ! Besides, Edward Conway, he is no assassin.” 

“ Still generous, if not wise !” was the remark of his com- 
panion, who added : “ Perhaps, Clarence, our only hope of 
safety depends upon their having their victim.” 

“ I love life ; life is precious to me,” said the other ; “ but it 
would be a bitterness and a loathing could I feel it were to be 
purchased by the sacrifice of that worthy fellow ” 

“We shall soon see. Here they come. Our trial is ei 
hand.” 


100 


THE SCOUT. 


No more words were permitted to either speaker. The uproa. 
tti conflicting voices without, the questioning and counselling, 
the cries and clamors, effectually stunned and silenced the two 
within. Then came a rush. The door was thrown open, and 
in poured the troop, in a state of fury, vexation, and disap 
pointment. 

They had failed to track the assassin. The darkness of the 
night, the prevalence of the storm, and the absence of every 
trace of his footsteps — which the rain obliterated as soon as it 
was set down — served to baffle their efforts and defeat their 
aim. They returned in a more savage mood of fury than be- 
fore. They were now madmen. The appetite for blood, pro- 
voked by the pursuit, had been increased by the delay. Ben 
Williams, the man who was slain, was a favorite among the 
troop. They were prepared to avenge him, and, in doing this, 
t<» carry out the cruel penalty which he was about to inflict on 
the prisoner in the moment when he was shot down. Led on 
by one of the party by whom Clarence had been originally 
made prisoner, they rushed upon him. 

“ Out with him at once !” was the cry of the infuriate 
wretches. “ To the tree — to the tree !” 

“ A rope, Muggs !” was the demand of one among them ; and 
sharp knives flashed about the eyes of the young partisan in 
fearful proximity. 

' What would you do, boys ?” demanded Muggs, interposing. 
He alone knew the tie which existed between the prisoner and 
his commander. He also knew, in part at least, the 'bjects for 
which the latter had put on his disguise. 

“ Let the prisoner alone to-night, ami give him a fair trial in 
tfie morning. ,, 

“ Who talks of fair trial in the morning 9 Look at Ben Wil 
liams lying at your foot. You’re treading m his blood, and you 
talking of fair trial to bis murderer.” 

“ But this man ain’t his murderer !” 

“ Same thing— same thing — wa’n’t it on his account that he 
was shot? Away with him to the tree. Away with him !” 

“Haul hrn along, fellows ! Here, let me lay hand on his col- 


A CRISIS. 


101 


lar,” cried a liuge dragoon from behind. “ Give’s a hold on him 
and you’ll soon see him out.” 

A dozen hands grappled with the youth. A dozen more con- 
tended that they might do so likewise. 

“ Scoundrels, give me but room and I will follow you,” cried 
Clarence with a scorn as lofty as he would have shown in a sta- 
tion of the utmost security, and with tones as firm as he ever 
uttered at the head of his regiment. 

“ If nothing but my blood can satisfy you for that which is 
shed, take it. You shall not see me shrink from any violence 
which your ruffian hands may inflict. Know that I despise and 
defy you to the last.” 

“Gag him — stop his mouth. Shall the rebel flout us on our 
own ground ?” 

“ Bring him forward. The blood of Ben Williams cries out 
to us; — why do you stand with oj)en mouths there? Shove 
him ahead.” 

Amid such cries as these, coupled with the most shocking 
oaths and imprecations, they dragged forward the youth slowly, 
for their own numbers and conflicting violence prevented co- 
operation. They dragged him on until, at length, he stood in 
the blood, and just above the body, of the murdered man. He 
did not struggle, but he shrunk back naturally, with some hor- 
ror, when he felt the clammy substance sticking to his feet. He 
readily conjectured whence it came — from what sacred sources 
of human life; — and, though a fearless soldier — one who, in 
the heat of battle, had often shed the blood of his enemy — yet 
the nature within him recoiled at the conviction that he stood in 
a puddle, which, but a little time before, had beat and bounded, 
all animation, and strength, and passion, in the bosom of a living 
man. 

His shuddering recoil was mistaken by the crowd for resist- 
ance, and one ruffian, more brutal than the rest, renewing hie 
grasp with one hand upon the collar of the youth, with the 
other struck him in the face. 

The blow, that last indignity and violence to which the man 
submits, roused the swelling tides in the bosom of the youth be- 
yond their wonted bounds. With an effort wlihh seemed rather 


102 


THE SCOUT. 


an emotion ol u.e soul than a physical endeavor, he put fori , 
his whole strength, and the cords snapped asunder which li?>d 
confined his arms, and with the rapidity of lightning he retorted 
the blow with such sufficient interest as prostrated the assailant 
at his feet. 

“ Now, scoundrels, if you must have blood, use your knives— 
for no rope shall profane my neck while I have soul to defy and 
power to resist you. Dogs, bloodhounds that you are, I scorn, 
I spit upon you. Bring forth your best man — your chief, if you 
have one to take the place of this carcass at my feet, that I may 
revile, and defy, and spit upon him also.” 

A moment’s pause ensued. The noble air of the man whom 
they environed — the prodigious strength which he had shown 
in snapping asunder the strong cords which had secured his 
limbs, commanded their admiration. Courage and strength will 
always produce this effect, in the minds of savage men. They 
beheld him with a momentary pause of wonder ; but shame, to 
be thus baffled by a single man, lent them new audacity. They 
rushed upon him. 

Without weapons of any kind, for he had been disarmed when 
first made a. captive, they had no occasion to resort to that degree 
of violence in overcoming him, to which he evidently aimed to 
provoke them. It was his obvious desire to goad them on to 
the use of weapons which would take life, and thus effectually 
defeat their purpose of consigning him to the gallows; — that 
degrading form of death from which the gentle mind shrinks with 
a revulsion which the fear of the sudden stroke or the swift shot, 
could never occasion. Hence the abusive and strong language 
which lie employed — language otherwise unfamiliar to his lips. 

His desire might still have been gratified. Several of the 
more violent among the young men of the party were rushing 
on him with uplifted hands, in which the glittering blade was 
flashing and conspicuous. But the scornful demand of Clarence, 
with which he concluded his contumelious speech, brought a new 
party into the field. 

This was no other than his kinsman. He had been a looker- 
on for some moments — not long — for the whole scene took far 
less time for performance than it now takes fo** narration, lie 


A CRISIS. 


ioa 


had watched its progress with new and rather strange ( motions. 
At one moment, the selfish desires of his heart grew predomi- 
nant. He thought of Flora Middleton, and he sank back and 
closed his eyes upon the objects around him, saying, in his secret 
heart — 

“Let them go on — let him perish — why should I preserve 
from destruction the only obstacle to my desires V * 

At the next moment., a better spirit prevailed within him. He 
remembered the services of Clarence to himself. He owed to 
him his life ; and, but now, had not the generous youth tendered 
him for his extrication and sole use that document, which he 
fancied would be all-powerful in securing his own safety. The 
image of their mutual father came, also, to goad the unworthy 
son to a sense of his duty ; and when he heard the fierce, proud 
accents of the youth — when he heard him call for “ their best 
man, their chief, that he might defy and spit upon him,” he 
started to his feet. 

There was but a moment left him for performance if his 
purpose was to save. The knives of the infuriate mob were 
already flourishing above their victim, and in their eyes might 
be seen that fanatical expression of fury which is almost beyond 
human power to arrest. A keen, quick, meaning glance, he 
gave to the landlord, Muggs ; whose eyes had all the while been 
anxiously watchful of his leader. At the sign the latter made his 
way behind him, and, unobserved, with a single stroke of his 
knife, separated the cord which bound his arms. In another 
instant his voice rose superior to all their clamors. 

“ Hold, on your lives !” he exclaimed, leaping in among the 
assailants. “ Back, instantly, fellows, or you will make an en 
emy of me ! Let the prisoner alone !” 

“Gad, I’m so glad!” exclaimed Muggs while the big drop 
of perspiration poured down his forehead “I thought, cippin 
you coildn’t stand by, and see them make a finish of it” 


104 


THE SCOUT 


CHAPTER X. 

SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 

“ Hold, comrades, you have done enough. Leave tlie pri& 
oner to me ! Colonel Conway, you demanded to look upon the 
chief of th<r BL 'k Riders. He is before you. He answers, at 
last, to you£ defiance.” 

And with these words, with a form rising into dignity and 
height, in becoming correspondence, as it. were, with the novel 
boldness of his attitude, Edward Conway stood erect and con- 
fronted his kinsman. In the bosom of the latter a thousand 
feelings were at conflict. Vexation at the gross imposition 
which had been practised upon him — scorn at the baseness of 
the various forms of subterfuge which the other had employed 
in his serpent-like progress ; but, more than all, the keen an- 
guish which followed a discovery so humiliating, in the bosom 
of one so sensible to the purity of the family name and honor 
— all combined to confound equally his feelings and his judgment. 
But his reply was not the less prompt for all this. 

“ And him, thus known, I doubly scorn, defy and spit upon !” 

He had not time for more. Other passions were in exercise 
beside his own ; and Edward Conway was taught to know, by 
what ^ensued; if the truth were unknown to him before, that it 
is always a far less difficult task to provoke, than to quiet, frenzy 
— to stimulate, than to subdue, the ferocity of human passions, 
when at the flood. A fool may set the wisest by the ears, but 
it is not the wisest always who can restore them to their former 
condition of sanity and repose. The congratulations of Muggs, 
the landlord, which, by the way, spoke something in his behalf, 
promised for a while to be without sufiicient reason 

The captain of the Black Riders met with unexpected resist 
ance among his troop. The murdered man had been a favorite 
and they were not apt to be scrupulous abou^ avenging the 


oHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 


105 


death of such among tlieir comrades as were. Even at a time 
when a moderate degree of reason prevailed among them, it was 
not easy to subdue them to placability and forbearance in regard 
to a prisoner; the very name of whom, according to their usual 
practice, was synonymous with victim. How much less so, at 
this juncture, when, with their blood roused to tiger rage, they 
had been suffered to proceed to the very verge of indulgence, 
before any effort, worthy of the name, on the part of an acknowl- 
edged superior, had been made to arrest them ! 

Edward Morton felt his error, in delaying his interposition so 
long. If his purpose had been to save, his effort should have 
been sooner made, and then it might have been effected with- 
out the more serious risk which now threatened himself* in the 
probable diminution of his authority. He estimated his power 
too highly, and flattered himself that he could at any moment in- 
terpose with effect. He made no allowance for that momentum of 
blood, which, in the man aroused by passion and goaded to fury, 
resists even the desires of the mind accustomed to control it ; 
even as the wild beast, after he has lashed himself into rage, 
forgets the keeper by whom he is fed and disciplined, and rends 
him with the rest. 

Edward Morton stood erect and frowning among those whom 
he was accustomed to command — and their obedience was with- 
held ! His orders were received with murmurs by some — with 
sullenness by all. They still maintained their position — their 
hands and weapons uplifted — their eyes glaring with savage 
determination; — now fixed on their threatened victim, and now 
on their commander ; and without much difference in their e> 
pression when surveying either. 

“ Do ye murmur — are ye mutinous ? Ha! will ye have me 
strike, men, that ye fall not back ? Is it you, Barton, and you. 
Fisher. You, of all, that stqnd up in resistance to my will ! 
Ensign Darcy, it will best become you to give me your prompt 
obedience. I have not forgotten your connection with Lieuten- 
ant Stockton. Fall back, sir — do not provoke me to anger: 
do not any of you provoke me too far !” 

The man addressed as Barton — a huge fellow who made 
himself consnicuous by his clamors from the first — replied in 


106 


THE SCOUT. 


a style which revealed to Morton the full difficulties of hia 
position. 

“ Look you, Captain Morton, I’m one that is always for obe- 
dience when the thing’s reasonable ; but here’s a case where 
it’s onreasonable quite. We ain’t used to see one of us shot 
down without so much as drawing blood for it. Ben Williams 
was my friend ; and, for that matter, he was a friend with every 
fellow, of the troop. I, for one, can’t stand looking at his blood, 
right afore me, and see his enemy standing t’other side, without 
so much as a scratch. As for the obedience, Captain, why there’s 
time enough for that when we’ve done hanging the rebel.” 

“ It must be now, Mr. Barton. Muggs, that pistol ! Stand 
by me with your weapon. Men, I make you one appeal ! I 
am your captain ! All who are still willing that I should be so, 
will follow Muggs. Muggs — behind me. March! By the 
God of Heaven, Mr. Barton, this moment tries our strength. 
You or I must yield. There is but a straw between us. There 
is but a moment of time for either ! Lower your weapon, sir, 
or one of us, in another instant, lies with Ben Williams.” 

The huge horseman’s pistol which Muggs handed to his 
leader at his requisition, had been already cocked by the land- 
lord. It was lifted while Morton was speaking — deliberately 
lifted— and the broad muzzle was made to rest full against the 
face yif the refractory subordinate. The instant was full of 
doubt and peril, and Clarence Conway forgot for the time his 
own danger in the contemplation of the issue. 

But the courage of the moral man prevailed over the instinct 
of blood. Edward Morton saw that he was about to triumph. 
The eye of the fierce mutineer sunk beneath his own, though 
its angry fires were by no means quenched. It still gleamed 
with defiance and rage, but no longer with resolution. The 
fellow looked round upon his comrades. They had shrunk back 
— they were no longer at his side ; and no small number had 
followed the landlord and were now ranged on the side of their 
captain. Of those who had not taken this decided movement, 
he saw the irresoluteness, and his .own purpose was necessarily 
strengthened. It is this dependence upon sympathy and associa- 
tion which constitutes one of the essential differences between the 


SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 


107 


vulgar and the educated mind. Brutal and bold as be was, Bar 
ton was not willing to be left alone. The chief of the Black Eiders 
saw that the trial was fairly over — the strife had passed. The 
evil spirit was laid for the present, and there was no longer any- 
thing to fear. 

“ Enough !” he exclaimed, lowering his weapon, and acting 
with a better policy than had altogether governed his previous 
movements. 

“ Enough ! You know me, Barton, and I think I know you. 
You are a good fellow at certain seasons, but you have your 
blasts and your hurricanes, and do not always know when to 
leave off the uproar. You will grow wiser, I trust ; but, mean- 
while, you must make some effort to keep your passions in order. 
This rough treatment of your friends, as if they were foes, won’t 
answer. Beware. You have your warning.” 

“ Yes,” growled the ruffian, doggedly, still unwilling alto- 
gether to submit ; “ but when our friends stand up for our foes, 
and take sides against us, I think its reasonable enough to think 
there’s not much difference between ’em, as you say. I’m done, 
but I think it’s mighty hard now-a-days that we can’t hang a 
rebel and a spy, without being in danger of swallowing a bullet 
ourselves. And then, too, poor Ben Williams ! Is he to lie 
there in his blood, and nothing to be done to his enemy ] 

“ I say not that, Mr. Barton. The prisoner shall haveda trial; 
and if you find him guilty of connection with the man who shot 
Williams, you may then do as you please. I have no disposition 
to deprive you of your victim ; but know from me, that, while I 
command you, you shall obey me — ay, without asking the why 
and wherefore ! I should be a sorry captain — nay, you would 
be a sorry troop — if I suffered your insubordination for an in- 
stant. Away, now, and make the circuit — all of you but 
Shumway and Irby. See to your powder, that it be kept dry ; 
and let your horses be in readiness for a start at dawn. This 
country is too hot for you already; and with such management 
as you have had in my absence, it would become seven times 
hotter. Away.” 

They disappeared, all but the two who were excepted by 
name. To these he delivered the prisoner. 


108 


THE SCOUT. 


“ Shumway, do jou and Irby take charge of tlie rebel. 
Lodge him in the block, and let him be safely kept till 1 relieve 
you. Your lives shall answer for his safety. Spare none who 
seek to thwart you. Were he the best man in the troop, who 
approached you suspiciously, shoot him down like a dog.” 

In silence the two led Clarence Conway out of the house. 
He followed them in equal silence. He looked once toward his 
kinsman, but Edward Morton was not yet prepared to meet his 
glance. His head was averted, as the former was followed by 
his guards to the entrance. Clarence was conducted to an out- 
house — a simple but close block-house, of squared logs— -small, 
and of little use as a prison, except as it was secluded from the 
highway. Its value, as a place of safekeeping, consisted sim- 
ply in its obscurity. Into this he was thrust headlong, and the 
door fastened from without upon him. There let us leave him 
for a while, to meditate upon the strange and sorrowful scene 
which he had witnessed, and of which he had been a part. 

His reflections were not of a nature to permit him to pay 
much attention to the accommodations which were afforded him. 
He found himself in utter darkness, and the inability to employ 
his eyes led necessarily to the greater exercise of his thoughts. 
He threw himself upon the floor of his dungeon, which was 
covered with pine-straw, and brooded over the prospects of that 
life which had just passed through an ordeal so narrow. Let us 
now return to his kinsman. 

Edward Morton had now resumed all the duties of his station 
as chief of the Black Riders. In this capacity, and just at this 
this time, his tasks, as the reader will readily imagine, were 
neither few in number nor easy of performance. It required no 
small amount of firmness, forethought, and adroitness, to keep 
in subjection, and govern to advantage, such unruly spirits. 
But the skill of their captain was not inconsiderable, and such 
were the very spirits whom he could most successfully command. 
The coarser desires of the mind, and the wilder passions of the 
man, he could better comprehend than any other. With these 
he was at home. But with these his capacity was at an end.. 
Beyond these, and with finer spirits, he was usually at fault. 

To be the successful leader of ruffians is perhaps a small 


SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 10^ 

merit. It requires cunning, rather than wisdom, to he able 
simply to discover the passion which it seeks to use ; and thia 
was the chief secret of Edward Morton. He knew how to 
make hate, and jealousy, and lust, and fear, subservient to his 
purposes, already roused into action. It is doubtful, even, 
whether he possessed the cold-blooded talent of Iago, to awaken 
them from their slumbers, breathe into them the breath of life, 
and send them forward, commissioned like so many furies, for 
the destruction of their wretched victim. A sample has been 
given already of the sort of trial which awaited him in the 
control of his comrades. 

But there were other difficulties which tasked his powers to 
the utmost. The difficulties which environed the whole British 
army were such as necessarily troubled, in a far greater degree, 
its subordinate commands. The duties of these were more 
constant, more arduous, and liable to more various risk and 
exposure. The unwonted successes of the American arms had 
awakened all the slumbering patriotism of the people ; while 
the excesses of which such parties as that which Morton com- 
manded had been guilty, in the hey-day of their reckless 
career, had roused passions in the bosom of their foes, which, 
if better justified, were equally violent, and far less likely, once 
awakened, to relapse into slumber. Revenge was busy with rJl 
her train in searmi of Morton himself, and the gloomily-capari- 
oned troop which he led. It was her array from which he so 
..arrowly escaped when he received the timely succor of his 
kinsman in the swamp. A hundred small bodies like his own 
had suddenly started into existence and activity around him. 
some of which had almost specially devoted themselves to the 
destruction of his troop. The wrongs of lust, and murder, amt 
spoliation, were about to be redressed ; and by night, as by day, 
was he required to keep his troop in motion, if for no other 
object than his own safety ; though, by this necessity, be was 
compelled to traverse a country which had been devastated ay 
the wanton hands of those whom he commanded. On the same 
track, and because of the same provocation, were scattered hun- 
dreds of enemies, as active in pursuit and search as he was m 
evasion. He well know the fate which awaited him if caugh* 


no 


THE SCOUT. 


and involuntarily shuddered as he thought of it : death in its 
most painful form ; torture fashioned by the most capricious exer- 
cise of ingenuity; scorn, ignominy, and contumely, the most bit- 
ter and degrading, which stops not even at the gallows, and, as 
far as it may, stamps the sign of infamy upon the grave. 

These were, in part, the subject of the gloomy meditations of 
the outlawed chief when left alone in the wigwam of Muggs, the 
landlord. True, he was not without his resources — his disguises 
— his genius ! He had been so far wonderfully favored by for- 
tune, and his hope was an active, inherent principle in his organi- 
zation. But the resources of genius avail not always, and even 
the sanguine temperament of Edward Morton was disposed to 
reserve, while listening to the promises of fortune. He knew 
the characteristic caprices in which she was accustomed to in- 
dulge. He was no blind believer in her books. He was too 
selfish a man to trust her implicitly ; though, hitherto, she had 
fulfilled every promise that she had ever made. 

The signs of a change were now becoming visible to his 
senses. He had his doubts and misgivings ; he was not without 
audacity — he could dare with the boldest; but his daring baa 
usually been shown at periods, when to dare was to be cautious. 
He meditated, even now, to distrust the smiles of fortune in sea- 
son — to leave the field of adventure while it was still possible 
and safe to do so. 

His meditations were interrupted at this moment, and, per 
haps, assisted, by no less a person than Muggs, the landlord. 
He made his appearance, after a brief visit to an inner shanty 
— a place of peculiar privity — the sanctum sanctorum — in 
which the landlord wisely put away from sight such stores as 
he wished to preserve from that maelstrom, the common maw. 
The landlord was one of the few who knew the secret history 
of the two Conways ; and, though he knew not all, he knew 
enough to form a tolerably just idea of the feelings with which 
the elder regarded the younger kinsman. He could form a no- 
tion, also, of the sentiments by which they were requited. In 
Muggs, Edward Morton had reason to believe that he had a sure 
friend — one before whom he might safely venture to unbosom 
tome of his reserves. Still, he was especially careful to show 


SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. Ill 

not all, nor tlie most important — none, in fact, the revelation of 
which could possibly he productive of any very serious injury or 
inconvenience. He, perhaps, did little more than stimulate the 
communicative disposition of “ mine host,” who, like most per- 
sons of his craft, was garrulous by profession, and fancied that 
he never ministered perfectly to the palates of his guests, unless 
w hen he accompanied the service by a free exercise of his own 
tongue. 

“ W ell, cappin, the game of fox and goose is finished now, I 
reckon. There’s no chance to play possum with your brother 
iny longer. It’s lion and tiger now, if anything.” 

“I suppose so,” replied the other, with something of a sigh. 
I lie landlord continued : — 

“The question now, I reckon — now, that you’ve got him in 
your clutches — is what you’re to do with him. To my think- 
ing, it’s jest the sort of question that bothered the man when he 
shook hands with the black bear round the tree. It was a starve 
to hold on and a squeeze to let go, and danger to the mortal ribs 
whichever way he took it.” 

“ You have described the difficulty, Muggs,” said the other, 
musingly — “ what to do with him is the question.” 

“ There’s no keeping him here, that’s cl’ar.” 

“ No. That’s impossible !” 

“ His friends, I reckon, are nigh enough to get him out of the 
logbox, and it’s cl’ar they know where to find him. That shot 
that tumbled poor Williams was mighty nigh and mighty sud- 
den, and was sent by a bold fellow. I’m onsatisfied but there 
was more than one.” 

“•‘No — but one,” said Morton — “but one!” 

“ Well, cappin, how do you count? There wa’n’t no track to 
show a body where to look for him. The wash made the airth 
smooth again in five shakes after the foot left the print.” 

*' It’s guesswork with me only, Muggs.” 

“ And who do you guess ’twas, cappin ?” 

“ Supple Jack !” 

“ Well, 1 reckon you’re on the right trail. It’s reasonable 
enough. I didn’t once think of him. But it’s cl’ar enough to 
everybody that knows the man, that Supple J ack’s jist the lad 


112 


THE SCOUT. 


to take any risk for a person lie loves so well. But,, you don’t 
think lie come alone ? I’m dub’ous the whole troop ain’t mighty 
fur off.” 

“ But him, Muggs ! He probably came alone. We left him, 
•lily an hour before I came, on the edge of the Wateree — a few 
miles above this. He and Clarence gave me shelter in the 
swamp when I was chased by Butler’s men, and when that 
skulking scoundrel, Stockton, left me to perish. Clarence rode 
on with me, and left Supple Jack to return to the swamp, where 
they have a first rate hiding-place. I suspect he did not return, 
but followed us. But of this we may speak hereafter. The 
question is, what to do with the prisoner — this bear whom 1 
have by the paws, and whom it is equally dangerous to keep 
and to let go.” 

“ Well, that’s what I call a tight truth ; but it’s a sort of sat- 
isfaction, cappin, that you’ve still got the tree a-tween you ; and 
so you may stop a while to consider. Now I ain’t altogether 
the person to say what’s what, and how it’s to be done ; but if 
sc be I can say anything to make your mind* easy, cappin, you 
know I’m ready.” 

* Ho so, Muggs : let me hear you,” was the reply of the out- 
law, with the musing manner of one who listens with his ears 
only, and is content to hear everything, if not challenged to find 
an answer. 

“Well, cappin, I’m thinking jest now we’re besot all round 
with troubles ; and there’s no telling which is biggest, closest, 
and ugliest — they’re all big, and close, and ugly. As for hiding 
Clarence Conway here, now, or for a day more, that’s onpossi- 
ble. It’s el’ar he’s got his friends on the track, one, mout be, a 
hundred ; and they can soon muster enough to work him out of 
the timbers, if it’s only b)^ gnawing through with their teeth. 
Well, how are you to do then ? Send him under guard to Cam- 
den ? Why, it’s a chance if all your troop can carry themselves 
there, without losing their best buttons by the way. It’s a long 
road, and the rebels watch it as close as hawks do the farmyard 
in chicken season. That, now. is about the worst sign for the 
king’s side that I’ve seed for a long spell of summers. It shows 
pretty el’ar that we ain’t so strong as we was a thinking. The 


SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 




11? 


wonder is, where these troopers come from ; and the worst won 
der is, where they get their boldness. Once on a time, wlier 
Tarleton first begun to ride among us, it Avas more like a driving 
% f deer than a fighting of men ; but it seems to me that the reb- 
els ha\ r e got to be the drivers, and o* late days they scamper us 
mightily. I see these things better tha« you, cappin, and, per 
haps, better than the rebels themselves ; for I ain’t in the thick. 
I’m jest like one that’s a-standing on a high hill and looking 
down at the fighting when it’s a-going on below. I tell you 
cappin, the game’s going agin the king’s people. They’re 
a-losing ground — these men’s getting fewer and fewer every 
day, and jest so fast do I hear of a new gathering among the 
whigs. I tell you agin, cappin, you’re besot Avitli troubles.” 

“ I knoAv it, Muggs. Your account of the case is an accurate 
one. We are in a bad way.” 

“By jingo, you may say so, cappin. You are, as 1 may say, 
in a mighty bad way — a sort of conflusteration, that it puzzles 
my old head more than I can tell rightly, to onbeflustcr. Then, 
as for the prisoner — ” 

“Ay, that, Muggs. Speak to that. What of him? — let me 
near your advice about the prisoner. Hoav is he to be- disposed 
of ?” 

“Well noAv, cappin — there’s a-many Avays for doing that, but 
which is the right and proper one — and Avlien it’s done, will it 
sarve the purpose? I’m afeard not — I’m not knoAving to any 
way how to lix it so as to please you. It’s pretty sartain he’s 
your enemy in Avar and your enemy in peace ; and if all things 
that’s said be true, about him and Miss Flora, it don’t seem t > 
me that you’d ha’ been any AA r orse off — if so be your father had 
never given you this brother for a companion.” 

The outIaAA r chief looked up for the first time during the in- 
ters ieAV, and his eye, full of significance,! encountered that of the 
landlord. 

“Ay, Muggs, the gift Avas a fatal one to me. Better for me 
— far fetter — had he never seen the light; or, seeing it, that 
some friendly foe had closed it from his eyes, Avliile he — while 
we were both — in a state of innocence.” 

“ Gau, cap - a in, I was thinking at one time to-night that black 


114 


THE SCOUT. 


Barton would have done you a service like that ; and 1 wag 
a-thinking jest then, that you wa’n’t unwilling. You kept so 
long quiet, that I was afeard you’d have forgotten the blood- 
kin, and let the boys had the game their own way.” 

“ You were afraid of it, were you ?” said Morton, his brow 
darkening as he spoke. 

“Ay, that I was, miglitly. When I thought of the tempt a 
tious, you know; — Miss Flora and her property — and then the 
fine estates he got by his mother’s side and all that was like to 
fall to you, if once he was out of the way — I begun to trimble 
— for I thought you couldn’t stand the temptation. ‘ He’s only 
to keep quiet now and say nothing, and see what he’ll get for 
only looking on.’ That was the thought that troubled me. 1 
was afeard, as I tell you, that you’d forget blood-kin, and every- 
thing, when you come to consider the temptations.” 

The outlaw rose and strode the floor impatiently. 

“ No, no, Muggs ; you had little cause to fear. He had just 
saved my life — sheltered me from my enemies — nay, would 
have yielded me his own commission as a protection, which he 
supposed would be effectual for his own or my safety. No, no ’ 
I could not suffer it. Yet, as you say, great, indeed, would have 
been the gain — great was the temptation.” 

“ True, cappin, but what’s the gain that a man gits by bloody- 
ing his hands agin natur’? Now, it’s not unreasonable or on- 
natural, when you have tumbled an open enemy in a fair 
scratch, to see after his consarns, and empty his fob and pockets. 
But I don’t think any good could come with the gain that’s 
spotted with the blood of one’s own brother — ” 

“ He’s but a half-brother, Muggs,” said Morton, hastily. “ Dif- 
ferent mothers, you recollect.” 

“Well, I don’t see that there’s a much difference, cappin. 
He’s a full brother by your father’s side.” 

* Yes, yes : — but Muggs. had he been slain by Barton and 
the rest, the deed would have been none of mine. It was a 
chance of war, and he’s a soldier.” 

“Well, cappin, I’m not so certain about that. There’s a dif- 
ference I know, but- *' 

it matters not { NY lives t He is spared, Muggs — spared 


SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 


lift 


perhaps, for the destruction of his preserver. I have saved his 
life ; but he knows my secret. That secret ! — That fatal secret ! 
Would to God ! — ” 

He broke off the exclamation abruptly, while he struck big 
head with his open palm. 

“ My brain is sadly addled, Muggs. Give me something — 
something which will settle it and compose my nerves. You are 
happy, old fellow — you are happy, and — safe • The rebels 
have forgiven you — have they not?” 

“ Well, we have forgiven each other, cappin, and I have 
found them better fellows nigh, than they war at a distance 
replied the landlord, while he concocted for the outlaw a strong 
draught of punch, the favorite beverage of the time and coun- 
try. 

“ If 1 ain’t happy, cappin, it’s nobody’s fault but my own. I 
only wish you were as safe, with all your gettings, as I think 
myself with mine ; and*you mought be, cappin ; — you mought.” 

A look of much significance concluded the sentence. 

“How — what would you say, Muggs?” demanded the out- 
law, with some increase of anxiety in his manner. 

The reply of the landlord was whispered in his ears. 

“Would to heaven I could! — but how? — How, Muggs, is 
this to be done ?” 

The answer was again whispered. 

“ No, no !” replied the other, with a heavy shake of the head. 
“ I would not, and I dare not. They have stood by me without 
fear or faithlessness, and I will not now desert them. But 
enough of this for the present. Get me your lantern, while 1 
seek this brother of mine in private. 'There must be some mor? 
last words between us.” 


116 


THE SCOUT. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE TRUE ISSUE. 

& ' ' ' ; • • / 

Preceded by the landlord Muggs, who carried a dark lantern, 
Morton took his way to the secluded block-house in which his kins- 
man was a prisoner. The only entrance to this rude fabric was 
closely watched by the two persons to whom Clarence was given in 
charge. These found shelter beneath a couple of gigantic oaks 
which stood a little distance apart from one another, yet sufficiently 
nigh to the block-house to enable the persons in their shadow, 
while themselves perfectly concealed, to note the approach of any 
intruder. Dismissing them to the tavern, the chief of the Black 
Riders assigned to Muggs the duty of the watch, and having 
given him all necessary instructions, he entered the prison, the 
door of which was carefully fastened behind him by the obedient 
landlord. 

The lantern which he bore, and which he set down in one 
corner of the apartment, enabled Clarence to distinguish his brother 
at a glance ; but the youth neither stirred nor spoke as he beheld 
him. His mind, in the brief interval which had elapsed after 
their violent separation in the tavern, had been busily engaged in 
arriving at that stage of stern resignation, which left him com- 
paratively indifferent to any evils which might then occur. Un- 
able to form any judgment upon the course of his brother’s 
future conducl, he was not prepared to say how far he might be 
willing to go — and how soon — in permitting to his sanguinary troop 
the indulgence of their bloody will. Wisely, then, he had steeled 
his mind against the worst, resolved, if he had to suffer death in 
an obscurity so little desired by the youthful and ambitious heart, 
to meet its bitter edge with as calm a countenance as he should 
like to display, under a similar trial, in the presence of a thousand 
spectators. 

Edward Morton had evidently made great efforts to work his 


THE TREE ISSUE. 


117 


mind up to a similar feeling of stern indifference; but he had 
not been so successful, although, at the moment, untroubled by any 
of those apprehensions which were sufficiently natural to the 
situation of his brother. His face might have been seen to vary 
in color and expression as his eye turned upon the spot where 
Clarence was sitting. The moral strength was wanting in his case 
which sustained the latter. The consciousness of guilt en- 
feebled, in some degree, a spirit whose intense selfishness 
alone — w T cre he unpossessed of any other more decisive 
characteristics — must have been the source of no small amount 
of firmness and courage. As if ashamed, however, of his feebleness, 
and determined to brave the virtue which he still felt himself 
compelled to respect, he opened the conference by a remark, the 
tone and tenor of which were intended to seem exulting and tri- 
umphant. 

“ So, Colonel Conway, you find your wisdom has been at fault. 
You little fancied that you were half so intimate with that fierce ban- 
dit — that renowned chieftain — of whom report speaks so loudly. It 
does not need that I should introduce you 'formally to the captain of 
the Black Riders of Congaree.” 

The youth looked up, and fixed his eye steadily on that of the 
speaker. Severe, indeed, but full of a manly sorrow, was the ex- 
pression of- that glance. 

“Edward Conway,” he replied, after a brief delay, “you 
do not deceive me by that tone — nay, you do not deceive yourself. 
Your heart, instead of exultation, feels at this moment nothing 
but shame. Your eye gazes not steadily on mine. Your spirit is 
not that of a feerless man. You shrink, Edward Conway, in spite 
of your assumed boldness, with all the cowardice of a guilty 
soul.” 

“ Cowardice ! — do you charge me with cowardice ?” 

‘ * Ay, what else than cowardice has made you descend to the sub- 
terfuge and the trick — to the base disguise and the baser falsehood ? 
These, tocr, to your brother, even at the moment when he was 
risking his own life to rescue that which you have dishonored for 
ever.” . 

“I will prove to you, in due season, that I am no coward, 
Clarence Conway,” replied the other, in hoarse and nearly un- 


118 


THE SCOUT. 


distinguishable accents ; “ you, at least, are seeking to convir oe 
me that you are none, in thus bearding the lion in his den.” 

“ The lion ! Shame not that noble beast by any such com- 
parison. The fox will better suit your purpose and pesforn- 
ance.” 

With a strong effort the outlaw kept down his temper, while 
he replied — 

“ I will not suffer you to provoke me, Clarence Conway. I 
have sought you for a single object, and that I will perform. 
After that — that over — and the provocation shall be met and 
welcomed. Now ! ” 

The other fiercely interrupted him, as he exclaimed — 

“ Now be it, if you will ! Free my hands — cut asunder these 
degrading bonds which you have fixed upon the arms whose last 
offices were employed in freeing yours, and in your defence — 
and here, in this dungeon, breast to breast, let us carry out that 
strife to its fit completion, which your evil passion, your cupidity 
or hate, have so dishonestly begun. I know not, Edward Con- 
way, what perversity of heart has brought you to this wretched 
condition — to the desertion of your friends — your country — 
the just standards of humanity — the noble exactions of truth. 
You have allied yourself to the worst of ruffians, in the worst of 
practices, without even the apology of that worst of causes which 
the ordinary tory pleads in his defence. You can not say that 
your loyalty to the king prompts you to the side you have 
taken, for I myself have heard you declare against him a thou- 
sand times ; unless, indeed, I am to understand that even ere 
we left the hearth and burial-place of our father, you had begun 
that career of falsehood in which you have shown yourself s 4 
proficient. But I seek not for the causes of your present state 
for the wrongs and the dishonor done me. If you be not ut- 
terly destitute of manhood, cut these bonds, and let the issue for 
life and death between us determine which is right.” 

“ There ! You have your wish, Clarence Conway.” And, as 
he spoke, he separated the cords with his hunting-knife, and the 
partisan extended his limbs in all the delightful consciousness 
recovered freedom. 

“You are so far free, Clarence Conway! — your limbs are un 


THE TRUE ISSUE. 


119 


hound, blit you arc unarmed. I restore you the weapon with which 
you this day provided me. It would now be easy for you to take the 
life of him whom you so bitterly denounce. I have no weapon to de- 
fend myself; my bosom is without defence.” 

“What mean you ? Think you that I would rush on you un- 
armed — that I seek unfair advantage ?” 

“ No, Clarence; for your own sake and safety, I would not fight 
you now.” 

“ Why for my safety ?” demanded the partisan. 

“ For the best of reasons. Were you to succeed in taking my life, 
it would avail you nothing, and your own would be forfeit. You 
could not escape from this place, and fifty weapons would be ready 
to avenge my death.” 

“ Why, then, this mockery — this cutting loose my bonds — this 
providing me with weapons ?” demanded Clarence. 

“ You shall see. You know not yet my desire. Hear me. My 
purpose is to acquit myself wholly of the debt I owe you, so that, 
when we do meet, there shall be nothing to enfeeble either 
of our arms, or diminish their proper execution. Once to-night I 
have saved you, even at the peril of my own life, from the fury of 
my followers. I have already severed your bonds. I have restored 
your weapon, and before the dawn of another day, the fleet limbs 
of your own charger shall secure your freedom. This done. 
Clarence Conway, I shall feel myself acquitted of all those 
burdensome obligations which, hitherto, have made me sup- 
press the natural feelings of my heart — the objects of 
my mind — the purposes of interest, ambition, love — all of which 
depend upon your life. So long as you live, I live not — so long 
as you breathe, my breath is drawn with doubt, difficulty and in 
danger. Your life has been in my hands, but I could not take it 
while I was indebted to you for my own. By to-morrow’s dawn I 
shall be acquitted of the debt — I shall have given you life for life, 
and liberty for liberty. After that, when we next meet, my gifts 
shall be scorn for scorn and blow for blow. You have my pur- 
pose.” 

Clarence Conway heard him with patience, but with mixed 
feelings. He w'as about to reply in a similar spirit, but a nobler 
sentiment arose in his bosom with the momentary pause which 


120 


THE SCOUT. 


lie allowed himself for thought. He kept down the gushing 
blood which was about to pour itself forth in defiance from his 
laboring breast, and spoke as follows — 

“ 1 will not say, Edward Conway, what I might safely declare 
of my own indifference to your threats. Nay, were I to obey 
the impulses which are now striving within me for utterance, 1 
should rather declare how happy it would make me were the 
hour of that struggle arrived. But there are reasons that speak 
loudly against the wish. For your sake, for our father’s sake, 
Edward Conway, I would pray that we might never meet again.” 

“ Pshaw ! these are whining follies ! — the cant of the girl or 
the puritan. They do not impose on me. Your father’s sake 
and mine, indeed ! Say nothing for yourself — for your own 
sake — oh, no! no! you have no considerations of self — none! 
Philanthropic, patriotic gentleman !” 

The keen eye of Clarence flashed angrily as he listened to this 
ineer. He bit his lip to restrain Jiis emotion, and once more 
replied, but it was no longer in the language of forbearance. 

“ 1 am not unwilling to say, for my sake also, Edward Conway. 
Even to you I need not add, that no mean sentiment of fear 
governs me in the expression. Fear I have of no man. Fear 
of you, Edward Conway — you, in your present degraded atti- 
tude and base condition — the leagued with ruffians and common 
stabbers — a traitor and a liar! — Fear o i you I could not have ! 
Nor do you need that I should tell you this. You feel it in your 
secret soul. You know that I never feared you in boyhood, and 
can not fear you now. My frequent experience of your powers 
and my own, makes me as careless of your threats, as that natu- 
ral courage, which belongs to my blood and mind, makes me 
insensible to the threats of others. Go to — you can not bully 
me. I scorn — I utterly despise you.” 

“ Enough, enough, Colonel Conway. We understand each 
other,” cried the outlaw, almost convulsed with his emotions. 
“ We are quits from this hour. Henceforward I fling the ties of 
blood to the winds. As I do not feel them, I will not affect 
them. 1 acknowledge them no more. I am not your father’s 
sou — not yoaj brother. I forswear, and from this moment] 
shall for ever deny the connection. I have no share in the base 


THE TRUE ISSUE. 


121 


puddle which fills your veins. Know me, henceforth, for a 
nobler spirit. I glory in the name which scares your puny 
squadrons. I am the chief of the Black Riders of Congaree — 
that fell banditti which makes your women shiver and your 
warriors fly — upon whom you invoke and threaten vengeance 
equally in vain. I care not to be distinguished by any other 
name or connection. You, I shall only know as one to whom I 
am pledged for battle, and whom I am sworn to destroy. You 
know not, forsooth, what has driven me to this position! 'I will 
tell you here, once for all ; and the answer I trust, will con- 
clude your doubts for ever. Hate for you — for you only ! I 
hated you from your cradle, with an instinct which boyhood 
hourly strengthened, and manhood rendered invincible. I shall 
always hate you; and if I have temporized heretofore, and for- 
borne the declaration of the truth, it was only the more effectu- 
ally to serve and promote purposes which were necessary to that 
hate. That time, and the necessity of forbearance, are at an 
end. I can speak, and speak freely, the full feeling of my soul. 
Accident has revealed to you what, perhaps, I should have 
wished for a while longer to withhold; but that known, it is 
now my pride to have no further concealments. I repeat, there- 
fore, that I loathe you from my soul, Clarence Conway; and 
when I have fairly acquitted myself of the debt I owe you, by send- 
ing you to your swamp in safety, I shall then seek, by every effort, 
to overcome and destroy you. Do you hear me? — am I at last 
understood ? ” 

“ I hear you,” replied Clarence Conway, with a tone calm, 
composed even; and with looks unmoved, and even sternly con- 
temptuous. “I hear you. Your violence does not alarm me, 
Edward Conway. I look upon you as a madman. As for your 
threats — pshaw, man! You almost moved mfto deal in clamors 
like your own. Let us vapor here no longer. I accept your terms. 
Give me my freedom, and set all your ruffians on the track. I 
make no promise — I utter no threat — but if I fail to take sweet 
revenge for the brutal outrages to which I have this night been sub- 
jected by you and your myrmidons, then may Heaven fail me in my 
dying hour!” 

“We are pledged, Clarence Conway,” said the outlaw; ‘ be- 


122 


THE SCOUT. 


fore daylight 1 will conduct' you from this place. Your horse 
shall be restored to you. You shall be free. I then know you 
no more — I fling from me the name of kinsman.” 

“ Not more heartily than I. Black Rider, bandit, outlaw, 01 
ruffian ! I shall welcome you to the combat by any name 
sooner than that which my father has made sacred in my earn.” 

Morton bestowed a single glance on the speaker, in which all 
the hellish hate spoke out which had so long been suppressed, 
yet working in his bosom. The latter met the glance with or.o 
more cool and steady, if far less full of malignity. 

“ Be it, then, as he wills it !” he exclaimed, when the outlaw 
had retired ; “ he shall find no foolish tenderness hereafter in my 
heart, working for his salvation ! If we must meet — if he will 
force it upon me — then God have mercy upon us both, for I will 
have none ! It is his own seeking. Let him abide it ! And 
yet, would to God that this necessity might pass me by ! Some 
other arm — some other weapon than mine — may do me justice, 
and accpiit me of this cruel duty ! ? * 

Long and earnest that night was the prayer of Clarence, that 
he might he spared from that strife which, so far, threatened to 
be inevitable. Yet he made not this prayer because of any 
affection : — which, under the circumstances, must have been 
equally misplaced and unnatural — which he bo v e his kinsman. 
They had never loved. The feelings of brotherhood had been 
unfelt by either. Their moods had been warring from the first 
— it does not need that we should inquire why. The sweet 
dependencies of mutual appeal and confidence were unknown to, 
and unexercised by, either ; and, so far as their sympathies were 
interested, Clarence, like the other, would have felt no more 
scruple at encountering Edward Conway in battle, than in meet- 
ing any indifferenfPperson, who was equally his own and the foe 
of his country. 

But there was something shocking to the social sense, in such 
a conflict, which prompted the prayers of the youth that it might 
be averted ; and this prayer, it may be added, was only made 
when the excitement which their conference had induced, was 
partly over. His prayer was one of reflection and the minu 
His blood took no part in the entreaty. At moments, when 


THINGS IN EMBRYO. 


123 


feeling, moved by memory, obtained the ascendency — even 
while he strove in prayer — the boon which he implored was 
forgotten ; and, rising from his knees, he thought of nothing but 
the sharp strife and the vengeance which it promised. Perhaps, 
indeed, this mood prevailed even after the supplication was 
ended. It mingled in with the feelings which followed it. and 
whenever they became excited, the revulsion ceased entirely, 
which a more deliberate thought of the subject necessarily 
occasioned. The passion of the gladiator was still warm, even 
after the prayer was ended of the Christian man. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THINGS IN EMBRYO. 

Edward Morton kept his promise. Before the dawn of the 
following day he released his kinsman from prison. He had 
previously sent his followers out of the way — all save the land- 
lord, Muggs — who could scarcely be counted one of them— 
and some two or three more upon whom he thought he could 
rely. He was not without sufficient motive for this caution. — 
He had his apprehensions of that unruly and insubordinate spirit 
which they had already shown, and which, baffled of its expected 
victim, he reasonably believed might once more display itself in 
defiance. A strange idea of honor prompted him at all hazards 
to set free the person, the destruction of whom would have been 
to him a source of the greatest satisfaction. Contradictions of 
this sort are not uncommon among minds which have been sub- 
ject to conflicting influences. It was not a principle, but pride, 
that moved him to this magnanimity. Even Edward Conway, 
boasting of his connection with the most atrocious ruffians, would 
have felt a sense of shame to have acted otherwise. 

The noble animal wb’Vb Hlavence rode was restored to him 
at his departure. Morton, aiso mounted, accompanied him in 
silence, for a mile beyond the secluded spot which the robbers 


124 


THE SCO CTT- 


had chosen for tlieir temporary refuge. He then spoke at part 
ing. 

“Colonel Conway, your path is free, and you are also! Be- 
fore you lies the road to the Wateree, with which you are suf- 
ficiently acquainted. Here we separate. I have fulfilled my 
pledges. When next we meet I shall remind you of yours. Till 
then, farewell.” 

He did not wait for an answer, but striking his rowel fiercely 
into the flanks of his horse, he galloped rapidly 1 ack to the 
place which he had left. The eye of Clarence followed him 
with an expression of stern defiance, not unmingled with sadness, 
while he replied : — 

“ I will not fail thee, be that meeting when it may. Sad as 
the necessity is, I will not shrink from it. I, too, have my 
wrongs to avenge, Edward Conway. I, too, acknowledge that 
instinct of hate from the beginning, which will make a labor of 
love of this work of vengeance. I have striven, but fruitlessly, 
for its suppression ; — now let it have its way. The hand of 
fate is in it. We have never loved each other. We have both 
equally doubted, distrusted, disliked — and these instincts have 
strengthened with our strength, grown with our growth, and 
their fruits are here ! Shall I, alone, regret them ? Shall they 
revolt my feelings only? No! I have certainly no fear — 1 
shall endeavor to free myself from all compunction ! Let the 
strife come when it may, be sure I shall be last to say, ‘ Hold off 
— are we not brethren V Yon fling away the ties of blood, do 
you ? Know from me, Edward Conway, that in flinging away 
these ties, you fling from you your only security. They have 
often protected you from my anger before — they shall protect 
you no longer.” 

And slowly, and solemnly, while the youth spoke, did he 
wave his open palm toward the path taken by his brother. But 
he wasted no more time in soliloquy. Prudence prompted him, 
without delay, to avail himself of the freedom which had been 
given him. He knew not what pursuers might be upon his 
path. He was not satisfied that his kinsman would still be true, 
without evasion, to the assurances which he had given in « 
mood of unwonted magnanimity. He plied his spurs freely 


THINGS IN EMBRYO. 


125 


therefore, and his steed acknowledged the governing impulse. 
Another moment found him pressing toward the swamp. 

But lie had scarcely commenced his progress, when a well-known 
voice reached his ears, in a friendly summons to stop; while on one 
hand, emerging from the forest, came riding out his faithful friend 
and adherent, Jack Bannister. 

“Ah, true and trusty Jack. Ever watchful. Ever mindful 
of your friend — worth a thousand friends — I might well have 
looked to see you as nigh to me in danger as possible. 1 owe 
you much, Jack — very much. It was you, then, as I thought, 
whose rifle ” 

“ Worked that chap’s buttonhole,” was the answer of the wood- 
man, with a chuckle, as shaking aloft the long ungainly but unerr- 
ing instrument, with one hand, he grasped with the other the 
extended hand of his superior. 

“I couldn’t stand to see the fellow handle you roughly, 
Clarence. It made the gall bile up within me; and though I 
knowed that ’twould bring the whole pack out upon me, and 
was mighty dub’ous that it would make the matter worse for 
you; yet I couldn’t work it out no other way. I thought you 
was gone for good and all, and that made me sort of desp’rate. 
I didn’t pretty much know what I was a-doing, and, it mought 
be, that Polly Longlips” (here he patted the rifle affectionately) 
“went off herself, for I don’t think I sighted her. If I had, 
Clarence, I don’t think the drop would ha’ been on the button 
of him that tumbled. I’m a thinking ’twould ha’ drawn blood 
that was a mighty sight more nigh to your’n, if there was any good 
reason that your father had for giving Edward Conway the 
name he goes by. I suppose, Clarence, you’re pretty nigh certain 
now that’s he’s no ra’al, proper kin of your’n, for you to be keeping 
him out of harm’s way, and getting into it yourself on account 
of him.” 

“And yet, he saved me from those ruffians, Jack.” 

“Dog’s meat! Clarence, and what of that? Wa’n’t it him 
that got you into their gripe; and wouldn’t he ha’ been worse 
than any sarpent that ever carried p’ison at the root of his 
upper jaw, if he hadn’t saved you, after what you’d done 
for him jest afore? Don’t talk to me of his saving you. Clar- 


126 


THE SCOUT. 


ence — don’t say anything more in his favor, or I’ll stuff my ears 
with moss and pine gum whenever you open your lips to speak. 
You’ve stood by him long enough, and done all that natur’ 
called lor, and more than w T as nateral. Half the men I know 7 , 
if they had ever been saved by any brother, as you’ve been 
saved by him, would ha’ sunk a tooth into his heart that wouldn’t 
ha’ worked its w r ay out in one winter, no how. But you’ve done 
with him now T , I reckon ; and if you ain’t, I’m done with you. 
There’lf be no use for us to travel together, if you ain’t ready 
to use your knife agen Edw r ard Conway the same as agin any other 
tory.” 

“Be satisfied, Jack. I’m sworn to it — nay, pledged to him by 
oath — when we next meet to make our battle final. It was on this 
condition that he set me free.” 

“ Well, he’s not so mean a skunk after all, if he’s ready to fight it 
out. I didn’t think he was bold enough for that. But it is all the 
better. I only hope that when the time comes, I’ll be the one to see 
fair play. I’ll stand beside you, and if he flattens you — which, God 
know's, I don’t think it’s in one of his inches to do — why, he’ll only 
have to flatten another. It’s cl’ar to you now, Clarence, that you 
know r s all about him.” 

“ Yes! He is the leader of the Black Riders. He declared it with 
his ow’n lips.” 

“ When he couldn’t help it no longer. Why, Clarence, he 
’twas, that sent them fellows a’ter you that tuk you. I didn’t 
see it, but I knows it jest the same as if I did. But, though 

you know that he’s a tory and a Black Rider, there’s a thousand 

villainies he’s been doing, ever since we played together, that 
you know nothing about, and I’m minded of one in preticular 

that happened when you was at college in England, by the 

coming of old Jake (^larkson! — You ’member Jake Clarkson, 
that planted a short mile from your father’s place, don’t you? — he 
had a small patch of farm, and did boating along the river, like my- 
self.” 

“ Yes, very well — I remember him.” 

“Well, him I mean. Old Jake had a daughter — I reckon 
you don’t much remember her, Mary Clarkson — as spry and 
sweet a gal as ever man set eyes on. I had a liking for the gal 


THINGS IN EMBRYO. 


127 


— I own it, Clarence — and if so be tilings hadn’t turned out as 
they did, I mought lia’ married her. But it’s a God’s blessing I 
didn’t , for you see Edward Conway got the better of her, and 
’fore- Jake know’d anything about it, poor Mary was a-carrying 
a Bundle she had no law to carry. When they pushed the gal 
about it, she confessed ’ twas Edward Conway’s doings ; and she 
told a long gal’s story how Edward had promised to marry her, 
and swore it on Holy Book, and all that sort of thing, which 
was pretty much out of reason and nater — not for him to speak 
it, but for her to be such a child as to believe it. But no matter. 
The stir was mighty great about it. Old Jake carried a rifle more 
than three months for Edward Conway, and he took that time to 
make his firsj trip to Florida ; where, I’m thinking, bad as he was 
before, he larn’d to be a great deal worse. It was there that he 
picked up all his tory notions, from having too much dealing 
with John Stuart, the Indian agent, who, you know, is jist as 
bad an inimy of our liberties as ever come out of the old country. 
Well, but the worst is yet to tell. Poor Mary couldn’t stand the 
desartion of Edward Conway and the diskivery of her sitiation. 
Beside, old Jake was too rough for the poor child, who, you 
know, Clarence, was a’most to be pitied ; for it’s mighty few 
women in this world that can say no when they’re axed for 
favors by a man they have a liking for. Old Jake was mighty 
cross ; and Molly, his wife, who, by nature, was a slie-tiger, she 
made her tongue wag night and day about the sad doing of the 
poor gal, ’till her heart was worn d wn in her bosom, and she 
didn’t dare to look up, and trimbled whenever anybody came 
nigh to her, and got so wretched and scary at last, that she went 
off one night, nobody knows whar, and left no tracks. Well, 
there was another stir. We were all turned out on the sarch, 
and it was my misfortune, Clarence, to be the first to find out 
what had become of her. Dickens ! it makes my eyes water to 
this day ! ” 

“And where did you find her, Jack?” 

“Didn’t find her, Clarence ; but found out the miserable end she 
made of herself. We found her bonnet and shawl -on the banks of 
the river, but her body we couldn't git i The rocks at the bottom of 
the Congarec know all about it, I reckon'” 


128 


THE SCOUT. 


“ I have now a faint recollection of this story, Bannister. 1 
must have heard it while in England, or soon after my return.’ 

“ ’Twas a bad business, Clarence ; and I didn’t feel the small- 
est part of it. I didn’t know till I come across the gal’s bonnet 
how great a liking I had for her. I reckon I cried like a baby 
over it. From that day I mistrusted Edward Conway worse 
than p’ison. There was a-many things, long before that, that 
made me suspicion him ; hut after that, Clarence, I always felt, 
when I was near him, as if I saw a great snake, a viper, or a 
mockasin, and looked all round for a chunk to mash its head 
with.” 

“And what of her old father, Jack ?” 

“Why, lie’s come up to join your troop. I was so full of 
thinking ’bout other matters yisterday, when I saw you, that I 
quite forgot to tell you. He’s been fighting below with Mari- 
on’s men, but he wanted to look at the old range, and so ho 
broke off to go under Sumter; — but the true story is, I’m think- 
ing, that lie’s liearn how Edward Conway is up here somewliar, 
a-figliting, and he comes to empty that rifle at his head. He’ll 
say his prayers over the bullet that he uses at him, and I reckon 
will make a chop in it, so that he may know, when his inimy is 
tumbled, if the shot that does the business was the one that had 
a commission for it.” 

“ And Clarkson is now with us I In the swamp V* 

“ I left him at the ‘ Big Crossings.’ But, Clarence, don’t you 
say nothing to him about this business. It’s a sore thing with 
him still, though the matter is so long gone by. But everything 
helps to keep it alive in his heart. His old woman’s gone to 
her long home ; and though she had a rough tongue and a long 
ane, yet lie was usen to her ; and, when he lost little Mary, and 
then her, and the tories burnt his house, it sort-a cut him up, 
root and branch, and made him fretful and vexatious. But he’ll 
fight, Clarence, like old blazes — there’s no mistake in him.” 

“I will be careful, Jack; but a truce to this. We have but 
ittle time for old histories ; and such melancholy ones as these 
may well be forgotten. We have enough before us sufficiently 
sad to demand all our attention and awaken our griefs. T# 
business now, Jack. We bare idled long enough.” 


THINGS IN EMBRYO. 


129 


■* Ready, colonel. Say tlie word.” 

“ Take the back track, and see after these Black Riders. We 
we fairly pledged now to encounter them — to beat them — to 
make the cross in blood on the breast of the very best of them.” 

“ Edward Conway at the head of them !” 

“ Edward Conway no longer, John Bannister. He himself 
disclaims the name with scorn. Let him have the name, with 
tire doom, which is due to the chief of the banditti which he 
leads. That name has saved him too long already. I rejoice 
that he now disclaims it, with all its securities. After him, John 
Bannister. If you have skill as a scout, use it now. After 
what has passed between us, he will be on my heels very 
shortly. He may be, even now, with all his band. I must be 
prepared for him, and must distrust him. It is therefore of vast 
importance thaf all his movements should be known To your 
discretion I leave it. Away. Find me in the swamp to-morrow 
at the Little Crossings. We must leave it for the Oongaree in 
three days more. Away. Let your horse use his heels.” 

A brief grasp of the hand, and a kind word, terminated the 
interview between the youthful partisan and his trusty follower. 
The latter dashed abruptly into the woods bordering the swamp, 
while the former, taking an upper route, pursued the windings 
of the river, till he reached the point he aimed at. We will not 
follow the course of either for the present, but return to the 
house of Muggs, and observe, somewhat further, the proceedings 
of the outlawed captain. 

There, everything had the appearance of a rapid movement. 
The troopers, covered by a thick wood, were preparing to ride. 
Horses, ready caparisoned, were fastened beneath the trees, 
while their riders, singly or in groups, were seeking in various 
ways to while away the brief interval of time accorded them in 
the delay of their chief officer. 

He, meanwhile, in the wigwam of Muggs, seemed oppressed 
by deliberations which baffled for the time his habitual activity. 
He sat upon the same bulk which he had occupied while a pris- 
oner the night before, and appeared willing to surrender himself 
to that fit of abstraction which the landlord — though he watched 
it with manifest uneasiness — did not seem bold enough to inter 


130 


THE SCOUT. 


rupt. At length the door of the apartment opened, and me 
presence of a third person put an end to the meditations of fcne 
one and the forbearance of the other party. 

The intruder was a youth, apparently not more than seven- 
teen years of age. Such would have been the impression on 
in) mind, occasioned by his timid hearing and slendei figure * 
indeed, he would have been called undersized for seventeen. 
Hut there was that in his pale, well-defined features, which spoke 
for a greater maturity of thought, if not of time, than belongs to 
this early period in life. The lines of his cheeks and mouth, 
were ^ till of intelligence — that intelligence which results from 
early anxieties and the pressure of serious necessities. The 
frank, free, heedless indifference of the future, wine’* shines out 
in the countenance of boyhood, seemed utterly obliterated from 
his face. The brow was already touched with wrinkles, that 
appeared strangely at variance with the short, closely cropped 
black hair, the ends of which were apparent beneath the slouched 
cap of fur he wore. The features were pensive, rather pretty. 
Indeed, but awfully pale. Though they expressed great intelli 
gence and the presence of an active thought, yet this did not 
seem to have produced its usual result in conferring confidence 
The look of the youth was downcast and when his large dark 
eyes ventured to meet those of the speaker, they seemed to 
cower and to shrink within themselves ; and this desire ap- 
peared to give them an unsteady, dancing motion, which became 
painful to the beholder, as it seemed to indicate apprehension, if 
not fright, in the proprietor. His voice faltered too when he 
spoke, and was only made intelligible by his evident effort at 
deliberateness. 

Like that of the rest of the troop, the costume of the youth 
was black. A belt of black leather encircled his waist, in 
which pistols and a knife were ostentatiously stuck. Yet how 
should one so timid be expected to use them ? Trembling in 
the presence of a friend, what firmness could he possess in the 
encounter with a foe? Where was the nerve, the strength, for 
the deadly issues of battle? It seemed, indeed, a mockery 
of fate — a cruelty — to send forth so feeble a frame and sr fear- 
ful a spirit, while the thunder and the threatening storm were 


THINGS IN EMBRYO. 


131 


in the sky. But no such scruples appeared to afflict the chief ; 
nor did he seem to recognise the expression of timidity in the 
boy’s features and manner of approach. Perhaps, he ascribed 
his emotions to the natural effect of his own stem manner, which 
was rather increased than softened as he listened to the assur- 
ance which the boy made that all was ready for a movement. 

“ You have lingered, boy !” 

44 Barton and the ensign were not with the rest, sir, and I had 
to look for them !” 

44 So ! — plotting again, were they ? But they shall find their 
match yet ! Fools ! Blind and deaf fools, that will not content 
themselves with being knaves to their own profit, but press on 
perversely as knaves, to their utter ruin. But go, boy — see 
that your own horse is ready ; and hark ye, do not be following 
too closely at my heels. I have told you repeatedly, keep the 
rear when we are advancing, the front only when we are retreat- 
ing. Remember.” 

The boy bowed respectfully, and left the room. 

“ And now, Muggs, you are bursting to speak. I know why, 
wherefore, and on what subject. Now, do you know that I 
have but to reveal to the troop the suggestion you made to me 
last night, to have them tear you and your house to pieces ? Do 
you forget that desertion is death, according to your own 
pledges r 

1 am no longer one of liie troop,” replied the landlord 
hastily. 

“ Ay, that may be in one sense, but is scarcely so in any 
other. You are only so far released from your oath that no one 
expects you to do active duty. But, let them hear you speak, 
even of yourself, as last night you spoke to me ; of my policy, 
and they will soon convince you that they hold you as fairly 
bound to them now , as you were when all your limbs were per- 
fect. They will only release you by tearing what remains 
asunder.” 

“ Well, but cappin, suppose they would, as you say. There’s 
no reason why they should know the advice I give to you ; and 
there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take that advice. We’re 
besot, as 1 said before, with dangers. There’s Greene with big 


132 


THE SCOUT. 


army, a-gaining ground every day. There ’s Sumter, and Mat 

ion, and Pickens, and Maliain, and ” 

« Psliaw, Muggs ! what a d — d catalogue is this ; and what 
matters it all ? Be it as you say — do I not know ? Did 1 not 
know, at the beginning, of all these dangers ? They do n 4 
terrify me now, any more than then ! These armies that vuu 
speak of are mere skeletons.” 

“They give mighty hard knocks for skilitons. There's that 

affair at Hobkirk’s ” 

“Well, did not Rawdon keep the field?” 

“Not over-long, cappin, and now ” 

“ Look you, Muggs, one word for all. I am sworn to the 
troop. I will keep my oath. They shall find no faltering in 
me. Living or dead, I stand by them to the last ; and I give 
you these few words of counsel, if you would be safe. I will 
keep secret what you have said to me, for, I believe, you meant 
me kindly ; but let me hear no more of the same sort of counsel. 
Another word to the same effect, and I deliver you over to the 
tender mercies of those with whom the shortest prayer is a span 
too long for an offender whose rope is ready and whose tree is 
near.” 

These words were just spoken as the boy reappeared at the 
door and informed the chief that the troop was in motion. The 
latter rose and prepared to follow. He shook hands with the 
landlord at parting, contenting himself with saying the single 
vtord, “ Remember !” — in a tone of sufficient warning — in reply 
to the other’s farewell. In this, Edward Morton displayed 
another sample of the practised hypocrisy of his character. His 
first mental soliloquy after leaving the landlord, was framed in 
such language as the following — 

r ‘ I like your counsel, Master Muggs, but shall be no such fool 
as to put myself in your power by showing you that I like it. 
I were indeed a sodden ass, just at this moment, Avhen half of 
my troop suspect me of treachery, to suffer you to hear, from 
my own lips, that I actually look with favor upon your counsel. 
Yet the old fool reasons rightly. This is no region for me now 
it. will net be much longer. The British, power is passing away 
-apidly. Rawdon will not sustain himself much longer. Corn- 


THINGS IN EMBRYO. 


•too 

!<)<> 


wallis felt that, and hence his pretended invasion of Virginia 
Invasion, indeed ! — a cover only to conceal his own flight. But 
what care I for him or them? My own game is of sufficient impor- 
tance, and that is well nigh up. 1 deceived myself when I fancied 
that the rebels could not sustain themselves through the campaign ; 
and if I wait to see the hunt up, I shall have a plentiful harvest from 
my own folly. No, no ! I must get out of the scrape as well 
as I can, and with all possible speed. But no landlords for con- 
fidants. A wise man needs none of any kind. They are for your 
weak, dependent, adhesive people ; folks who believe in friend- 
ships and loves and that sort of thing. Loves ! Have I, then, 
nonV — no loves? Ay, there are a thousand in that one. If I 
can win her , whether by fair w T ord or fearless deed, well ! It will 
not then be hard to break from these scoundrels. But, here 
they arc ! ” 

Such w T as thv, train of Edward Morton’s thoughts as he left 
the landlord. Followed by the boy of whom we have already 
spoken, he cantered forth to the w r ood where the troop had formed, 
and surveyed them with a keen, searching, soldierly, eye. 

Morton was not without military ambition, and certainly possessed, 
like his brother, a considerable share of military talent. Ilis glance 
expressed pleasure at the trim, excellent dress and aspect of his 
troop. Beyond this, and those common purposes of selfishness 
which had prompted the evil deeds, as well of men as leader, he had 
no sympathies with them. Even as he looked and smiled upon their 
array, the thought rapidly passed through his mind — 

“ Could I run their heads into the swamp now, and withdraw my 
own, it were no bad finish to a doubtful game. It must be tried ; 
but I must, use them something further. They can do good 
service yet, and no man should throw away his tools till his work is 
ended.” 

Brief time was given to the examination. Then followed the 
instructions to his subordinates, which do not require that we 
should repeat them. The details that concern our narrative will 
develop themselves in proper order, and in due season. But we 
may mention, that the chief of the outlaws made his arrange- 
ments with some reference to the rumors of disaffection among 


m 


THIS SCOUT. 


iiis men which hact reached his ears. He took care to separate 
the suspected officers, in such a way as to deprive them, for the 
present, of all chance of communion ; then, taking the advance, 
lie led the troop forward, and was soon found pursuing the track 
lately taken by Clarence Conway 


CHAPTER XJII. 

NEW PRINCIPLES DISCUSSED BY OLD LAWS. 

The last words of the chief of the Black Riders, as lie le& 
the presence of the landlord, had put that worthy into a most 
unenviable frame of mind. He had counselled Morton for his 
own benefit — he himself had no selfish consideration#. He 
iiattered himself that the relation in which he stood to the par- 
ties between which the country was divided, not to speak of his 
mutilated condition, would secure him from danger, no matter 
which of them should finally obtain the ascendency. That he 
should be still held responsible to his late comrades, though he 
no longer engaged in their pursuits and no longer shared their 
spoils, was a medium equally new and disquieting through which 
he was required to regard the subject. The stern threat with 
which Morton concluded, left him in little doubt of the uncertain 
tenure of that security which he calculated to find among his 
c.d friends; and, at the same time, awakened in his heart some 
new and rather bitter feelings in reference to the speaker. 
Hitherto, from old affinities, and because of some one of those 
t ameless moral attachments which incline us favorably to indi- 
vi iuals to whom we otherwise owe nothing, he had been as well 
disposed toward Edward Morton , as he could be toward any 
individual not absolutely bound to him by blood or interest, 
lie had seen enough to like in him, to make him solicitous ot 
his successes, and to lead him in repeated instances, as in that 
which incurred the late rebuke, to volunteer his suggestions, and 
to take some pains in acquiring information which sometimes 


NEW PRINCIPLES DISCUSSED BY OLD LAWS. 


135 


proved of essential benefit to the outlaw. It was partly in con- 
sequence of this interest, that he acquired that knowledge of 
the private concerns of Morton which prompted the latter, nat- 
urally enough, to confer with him, with tolerable freedom, on a 
number of topics strictly personal to himself, and of which the 
troop knew nothing. Conscious of no other motive than the 
good of the outlaw, and not dreaming of that profounder cun- 
ning of the latter, which could resolve him to adopt the counsel 
which he yet seemed to spurn with loathing, the landlord, 
reasonably enough, felt indignant at the language with which 
lie had been addressed ; and his indignation was not lessened 
by the disquieting doubts of his own safety which the threats 
of Morton had suggested. It "was just at the moment when his 
conclusions were most unfavorable to the outlaw, that the door 
of his wigwam was quietly thrown open, and he beheld, with 
some surprise, the unexpected face of our worthy scout, Jack Ban- 
nister, peering in upon him. The latter needed no invitation to 
enter. 

“ Well, Isaac Muggs,” said he, as he closed and bolted the door 
behind him, “you’re without your company at last. I was a’most 
afear’d, for your sake in pretic’lar, that them bloody sculpers was 
a-going to take up lodging with you for good and all. I waited 
a pretty smart chance to see you cl'ar of them, and I only wish I was 
sartin, Muggs, that you was as glad as myself when they concluded 
to make a start of it.” 

“Ahem! — To be Sure I was, friend Supple,” replied the other 
with an extra show of satisfaction in his countenance which did not 
altogether conceal the evident hesitation of his first utterance. — “ To 
be sure I was ; they’d ha’ drunk me out of house and home if the} r 
had stopped much longer. A kag of lemons a’most — more than 
two kags of sugar, best Havana — and there’s no measuring the 
Jamaica, "wasted upon them long swallows. Ef I a’n’t glad of 
their going, Jack, I have a most onnateral way of thinking on sicli 
matters.” 

The keen eyes of Supple Jack never once turned from the coun- 
tenance of the landlord, as he detailed the evils of consumption 
among liis guests; and when the latter had finished, he coolly re- 
ulied: — 


136 


THE SCOUT. 


“I’m af ear’d, Isaac Muggs, you a’n’t showing clean hands 
above the table. That’s a sort of talking that don’t blind my eyes, 
even ef it stops my ears. Don’t I know it would be mighty on- 
nateral if you wa’n’t glad enough to sell your kags of lemons, and 
your kags of sugar, and your gallons of rum, pretic’larly when, 
in place of them, you can count me twenty times their valley 
in British gould? No, Muggs, that sort o’ talking won’t do for 
me. Take the cross out of your tongue and be pretic’lar in what 
you say, for I’m going to s’arch you mighty close this time, I tell 
you.” 

“Well but, Supple, you wouldn’t have me take nothing from 
them that drinks and eats up my substance?” 

“Who talks any such foolishness but yourself, Muggs? — 1 
don’t. I’m for your taking all you can get out of the inimy ; 
for it’s two ways of distressing ’em, to sell ’em strong drink and 
take their gould for it. The man that drinks punch is alwaj’S 
the worse for it ; and it don’t better his business to make him 
pay for it in guineas. That’s not my meaning, Muggs. I’m 
an another track, and I’ll show vou both eends of it before I’m 
done.” 

“Why, Supple, you talks and looks at me suspiciously,” said the 
landlord, unable to withstand the keen, inquiring glances of the 
scout, and almost as little able to conceal his apprehensions lest some 
serious discovery had been made to his detriment. 

“ Look you, Isaac Muggs, do you see that peep-hole there in the 
wall?.— oh, thar! jest one side of the window — the peep-hole in the 
logs ? ” 

“Yes, I see it,” said the landlord, whose busy fingers were 
already engaged in thrusting a wadding of dry moss into the discov- 
ered aperture. 

“Well, it’s too late to poke at it now, Muggs,” said the other. 
“The harm’s done a’ready, and I’ll let you know the worst of it. 
Through that peep-hole, last night, I saw what was a-going on 
here among you ; and through that peep-hole, it was this same 
Polly Longlips ” — tapping his rifle as he spoke— “that went 
off of her own liking, and tumbled one big fellow ; and was 
mighty vexatious, now, when she found herself onable to tumble 
another.” 


NEW PRINCIPLES DISCUSSED BY OLD LAWS 137 


“ Yes, yes — Polly Longlips was always a famous talker,” mur- 
mured the landlord flatteringly, and moving to take in Lis' remaining 
hand the object of his eulogium. But Supple Jack evidently re- 
coiled at so doubtful a liberty in such dangerous times, and drew 
the instrument more completely within the control of his own 
arm. 

“ She’s a good critter, Muggs, but is sort o’ bashful among stran- 
gers ; and w T hen she puts up her mouth, it ain’t to be kissed or to 
kiss, I tell you. She’s not like other gals in that pretic’lar. 
Now, don’t think I mistrust you, Muggs, for ’twould be mighty 
timorsome w r as I to be afeard of anything you could do with a 
rifle like her, having but one arm to go upon. It’s only a jealous 
way I have, that makes me like to keep my Polly out of the arms of 
any other man. It’s nateral enough, you know, to a person that 
loves his gal.” 

“Oh yes, very nateral, Supple ; but somehow, it seems to me as if 
you did suspicion me, Supple — it does, I declar’.” 

“ To be sure I do,” replied the other, promptly. “I suspicions 
you’ve been making a little bit of a fool of yourself ; and I’ve come 
to show you which eend of the road will bring you up. You know, 
Muggs, that I know all about you — from A to izzard. I can read 
you like a book. I reckon you’ll allow that I have larn’d that lesson, 
if I never larn’d any other.” 

“ Well, Supple, I reckon I may say you know me pretty much as 
w T ell as any other person.” 

“Better — better, Muggs ! — I know r you from the jump; and I 
know what none of our boys know, that you did once ride with these 
Black — ” 

“Yes, Supple, but — ” and the landlord jumped up and looked 
out of the door, and peered, with all his eyes, as far as possible 
into the surrounding wood. The scout, meanwhile, with imper 
turbable composure, retained the seat which he had originally 
taken. 

“Don’t you be scarey,” said he, when the other had returned, 
“ I’ve sarcumvented your whole establishment — looked in at both of 
your blocks, and all of your cypress hollows, not to speak of a small 
rifle T look after your friends — ” 

“No friends of mine, Supple, no more than any other people 


138 


THE SCOUT 


that pay for what they git,” exclaimed the apprehensive land- 
lord. 

“ That’s the very p’int I’m driving at, Muggs. You know well 
enough that if our boys had a guess that you ever rode with that ’ere 
troop, it wouldn’t be your stump of an arm that ’d save you from the 
swinging limb.” 

“But I never did hide that I fou’t on the British side, Supple !”. 
said the other. 

“In the West Indies, Isaac Muggs. That’s the story you told 
about your hurts, and all that. If you was to tell them, or if I 
was to tell them, any other story now, that had the least smell 
of the truth in it, your shop would be shut up for ever in this life, 
and — who knows? — maybe never opened in the next. Well, 
now, I’m come here this blessed day to convart you to rebellion. 
Through that very peep-hole, last night, I heard you, with my own 
ears, talking jest as free a,s the rankest tory in all the Wateree 
country.” 

“ Oh, Lord, Supple, wa'n’t that nateral enough, when the house 
wor full of tories ?” 

“ ’T’wa’n’t nateral to an honest man at any time,” replied the 
other indignantly ; “and let me tell you, Muggs, the house wa’n’t full 
— only Ned Conway was here, with his slippery tongue that’s a 
wheedling you, like a blasted blind booby, Muggs, to your own de- 
struction. That same fellow will put your neck in the noose yet, and 
laugh when you’re going up.” 

A prediction so confidently spoken, and which tallied so admira- 
bly with the savage threat uttered by the outlaw at his late departure, 
drove the blood from the cheeks of the landlord, and made him heed- 
less of the harsh language in which the scout had expressed himself, 
llis apology w r as thus expressed : — 

“But ’twas pretty much the same thing, Supple — he was their 
cappin, you know.” 

“ Captain ! And what does he care about them, and what do they 
care about him, if they can get their eends sarved without 
each other ? It wouldn’t be a toss of a copper, the love that’s 
atween them. He’ll let them hang, and they’ll hang him, as 
soon as it’s worth while for either to do so. Don’t I know, 
Muggs ? Don’t I know that they’re conniving strong agin him 


NEW PRINCIPLES DISCUSSED BY OLD LAWS. 139 


even now, and don’t I calculate that as soon as the Congaree country- 
gits too hot to hold Rawdon, this Ned Conway will be the first to kill 
a colt to ’scape a halter ? He’ll ride a horse to death to get to 
Charleston, and when there he’ll sink a ship to get to the West 
Indies. He knows his game, and he’ll so work it, Isaac Muggs, 
as to leave your neck in the collar without waiting to hear the 
crack.” 

“ You’re clean mistaken, Supple, for ’twas only this morning that 
I cautioned the captain ’bout his men, and I gin him my counsel to 
take the back track and find his way to the seaboard ; but he 
swore he’d never desart the troop, and he spoke mighty cross to me 
about it, and even threatened, if I talked of it another time to him, to 
set the troopers on me.” 

“ More knave he, and more fool you for your pains,” said the other 
irreverently ; but this only makes me the more sartin that he means to 
finish a bad game by throwing up his hand. He’s made his 
Jack and he don’t stop to count. But look you, Isaac Muggs, all this 
tells agin you. Here, you’re so thick, hand and glove, with the 
chief of the Black Riders, that you're advising him what to 
do ; and by your own words, he makes out that you’re 
still liable to the laws of the troop. Eh ? what do you say 
to that ? ” 

“ But that’s only what he said, Supple, and it’s what was a-worry- 
ingme when you come in.” 

“ Look you, Muggs, it ought to worry you ! I’m mighty serious 
in this business. I’m going to be mighty strick with you. I 
was the one that spoke for you among our boys, and ’twas only 
because I showed them that I had sort o’ convarted you 
from your evil ways, that they agreed to let you stay 
here in quiet on the Wateree. Well, I thought I had 
convarted you. You remember that long summer day last August, 
when Polly Longlips gin a bowel complaint to Macleod, the Scotch 
officer. • You was with him in the boat, and helped to put him 
across the W ateree. Well, when we was a-burying him — for he died 
like a gentleman bred — I had a call to ax you sartin questions, and 
we had a long argyment about our liberties, and George the 
Third, and what business Parlyment had to block up Boston 
harbor, and put stamps on our tea before they let us drink it. 


140 


THE SCOUT. 


Do you remember all them matters and specifications, Isaac 
Muggs ? ” 

“ Well, Supple, I can’t but say I do. We did have quite a long 
argyment when the lieutenant was a dying, and jest after the 
burial.” 

“No, ’twas all the while we was a-la}dng in the trench; for 

I recollect saying to you, when you was a pitying him all the 

time, that, ef I was sorry for the poor man’s death, I wasn’t 
sorry that I kill him, and I would shoot the very next one 

that come along, jest the same ; for it made the gall bile up in 

me to see a man that I had never said a hard word to in all my 
life, come here, over the water, a matter, maybe, of a thousand miles, 
to force me at the p’int of the bagnet, to drink stamped 
tea. I never did drink the tea no how. For my own drinking, 
I wouldn’t give one cup of cotfee, w r ell biled, for all the tea that 
was ever growed or planted. But, ’twas the freedom of the 
thing that I was argying for, and ’twas on the same argyment 
that I was willing to fight. Now that was the time, and them 

was the specifications which made us argj^fy, and it was only 

then, when I thought I had convarted you from your evil w T ays, 
that I tuk on me to answer for your good conduct to our boys. 
I spoke to the colonel for you, jest the same as ef I had know’d 
you for a hundred years. It’s true I did know you, and the 
mother that bore you, and a mighty good sort of woman she 
was ; but it was only after that argyment that I felt a call to 
speak in your behalf. Now, Isaac Muggs, I ain’t conscience- 
free about that business. I’ve had my suspicions a long time 
that I spoke a leetle too much in j r our favor ; and what I heard 
last night — and what I seed — makes me dub’ous that you’ve 

been a sort o’ snake in the grass. I doubt your convarsion, 

Isaac Muggs ; but before I tell you my mind about the business, 
I’d just like to hear from your own lips what you think about 
our argyment, and what you remember, and what you be- 
lieve.” 

The landlord looked utterly bewildered. It was evident that 
he had never devoted much time to metaphysics ; and the con- 
fusion and disorder of the few words which he employed in an- 
swer, and the utter consternation of his looks, amply assured the 


NEW PRINCIPLES DISCUSSED BY OLD LAWS. 141 


inflexible scout that the labor of conversion must be entirely gone 
over again. 

“ I see, Isaac Muggs, that you’re in a mighty bad fix, and it’s a 
question with me whether I ought raly to give you a helping hand to 
git out of it. Ef I thought you wanted to git at the truth — ” 

“ Well, Supple, as God’s my judge, I sartinly do.” 

“ I’d go over the argyment agin for your sake, but — ” 

“I’d thank you mightily, Supple.” 

“But ’twon’t do to go on forgetting. Muggs. The thing is to be 
onderstood, and if 'it’s once onderstood, it’s to be believed ; and when 
3 t ou say you believe, there’s no dodging after that. There’s no sa} r - 
ing you’re a tory with tories, and a whig with whigs, jest as it seems 
needful. The time’s come for every tub to stand on its own bottom, 
and them that don’t must have a turn — inside out ! Now, there’s no 
axing you to fight for us, Muggs — that’s out of natur’ — and I’m 
thinking we have more men now than we can feed ; but we want the 
truth in your soul, and we want you to stick to it. Ef you’re ready 
for that, and raly willing, I’ll put it to you in plain argyments that 
you can’t miss, onless you want to miss ’em ; and you’ll never dodge 
from ’em, if you have only half a good-sized man’s soul in you to go 
upon.^ You’ve only to say now, whether you’d like to know — ” 

The landlord cut short the speaker by declaring his anxiety to be 
re-enlightened, and Supple Jack rose to his task with all the calm 
deliberation of a practised lecturer. Coiling up a huge quid of 
tobacco in one jaw, to Drevent its interfering with the argument, he 
went to the door. 

“I’ll jest go out for a bit and hitch ‘ Mossfoot, ’ ” — the name con- 
ferred upon his pony, as every good hunter has a tender diminutive 
for the horse he rides and the gun he shoots — “ I’ll only go and hitch 
‘Mossfoot’ deeper in the swamp, and out of harm’s way for a spell, 
and then be back. It's a three minutes’ business only.” 

He was not long gone, but, during that time, rapid transitions 
of thought and purpose were passing through the mind of the 
veteran landlord. Circumstances had already prepared him to 


142 


THE SC< t . 


recognise the force of many of the scout’s aiguments. The 
very counsel he had given to Edward Morton originated in a 
conviction that the British cause was going down — that the 
whigs were gaining ground upon the tories with every day’s 
movement, and that it would be impossible for the latter much 
longer to maintain themselves. The policy of the publican usu- 
ally goes with that of the rising party. He is not generally a 
bad political thermometer, and Muggs was a really good one. 
Besides, he hac been stung by the contemptuous rejection of his 
counsel by the chief whom he was conscious of having served 
unselfishly, and alarmed by the threats which had followed his 
uncalled-for counsel. 

The necessity of confirming his friends among the successful 
rebels grew singularly obvious to his intellect, if it had not beep 
so before, in the brief absence of the scout ; and when he re- 
turned, the rapidly quickening intelligence of the worthy land- 
lord made the eyes of the former brighten with the satisfaction 
which a teacher must naturally feel at the wonderful progress 
and ready recognition of his doctrines. 

These, it will not be necessary for us entirely, or even in 
part, to follow. The worthy woodman has already given us a 
sufficient sample of the sort of philosophy in which he dealt ; 
and farther argument on the tyranny of forcing “ stamped tea” 
down the people’s throats, “ will they, nill they,” may surely 
be dispensed with. But, flattering as his success appeared to 
be at first, Supple Jack was soon annoyed by some doubts and 
difficulties which his convert suggested in the progress of the 
argument. lake too many of his neighbors, Isaac Muggs was 
largely endowed with the combative quality of self-esteem. 
This, as the discussion advanced, was graded into exercise ; 
and his fears and his policy were equally forgotten in the desire 
of present triumph. A specimen of the manner in which their 
deliberations warmed into controversy may be passingly at- 
forded. 

“ It’s agin natur’ and reason, and a man’s own seven senses,” 
said Supple Jack, “ to reckon on any man’s right to make laws 
for another, when he don’t live in the same country with him, 
i say, King George, living in England, never had a light to 


NEW PRINCIPLES DISCUSSED BY OLD LAWS. 143 


make John Bannister, living on the Congaree, pay him taxes for 
tea or anvtliing. 

“ But it's all the same country, England and America, Jack 
Bannister.” 

“ Jimini ! — if that’s the how, what makes you give ’em dif- 
ferent names, I want to know ?” 

“ Oh, that was only because it happened so,” said the land 
lord, doubtfully. 

“ W ell, it so happens that I won’t pay George the Third any 
more taxes. That’s the word for all ; and it’s good reason why 
I shouldn’t pay him, when, for all his trying, he can’t make me. 
Here lie’s sent his rigiments- —rigiment after rigiment — and the 
Hucen sent her rigiment, and the prince of Wales his rigiment 
— I reckon we didn’t tear the prince’s rigiment all to flinders at 
Hanging Rock! — Well, then, there was the Royal Scotch and 
the Royal Irish, and the Dutch Hessians; — I suppose they 
didn’t call them royal, ’cause they couldn’t ax in English for 
what they wanted : — well, what was the good of it ? — all these 
rigiments together, couldn’t make poor Jack Bannister, a Con- 
garee boatmen, drink stamped tea or pay taxes. The rigiments, 
all I’ve named, and a hundred more, are gone like last autumn’s 
dry leaves ; and the only fighting that’s a-going on now, worth 
to speak of, is American born ’gainst American bom. Wateree 
facing Wateree — Congaree facing Congaree — Santee facing 
Santee — and cutting each other’s throats to fill the pockets of 
one of the ugliest old men — for a white man — that ever I 
looked on. It spiles the face of a guinea where they put his 
face. Look you, Isaac Muggs, I would ha’ gathered you, as 
Holy Book says it, even as a hen gathers up her chickens. I’d 
ha’ taken you ’twixt my legs in time of danger, and seed you 
safe through — but you wouldn’t! I’ve tried to drive reason 
into your head, but it’s no use ; you can’t see what’s right, and 
where to look for it. You answer everything I say with your 
eyes sot, and a cross-buttock. Now, what’s to be done ? I’m 
waiting on you to answer.” 

“ Swounds, Supple, but you’re grown a mighty hasty man o' 
late,” replied the landlord, beginning to be sensible of the im- 
prudence of indulging his vanity at a moment so perilous to liii 


144 


THE SCOUT. 


fortune. “ I’m sure I’ve tried my best to see the right and the 
reason. I’ve liearn what you had to say ” 

“ Only to git some d — d crooked answer ready, that had jist 
as much to do with the matter as my great grand-daughter has. 
You liearn me, but it wa’n’t to see if the truth was in me; it 
was only to see if you couldn’t say something after me that 
would swallow up my saying. I don’t see how you’re ever to 
get wisdom, with such an understanding, unless it’s licked into 
you by main force of tooth and timber.” 

“ I could ha’ fou’t you once, John Bannister, though you are 
named Supple Jack,” replied the landlord with an air of indig- 
nant reproach, which, in his own self-absorption, escaped the 
notice of the scout. 

“ It’s no bad notion that” he continued, without heeding the 
language of the landlord. “ Many’s the time, boy and man, I 
have fou’t with a fellow when we couldn’t find out the right of it, 
any way ; and, as sure as a gun, if I wan’t right I was sartain 
to be licked. Besides, Isaac Muggs, it usen to be an old law, 
when they couldn’t get at the truth any other way, to make a 
battle, and cry on God’s mercy to help the cause that was right. 
By Jimini, I don’t see no other way for us. I’ve given you all 
the reason I know on this subject- -all that I can onderstand. I 
mean — for to confess a truth, there’s a-many reasons for our 
liberties that I hear spoken, and I not able to make out the 
sense of one of them. But all that I know I’ve told you, and 
there’s more than enough to make me sartin of the side 1 take 
Now, as you ain’t satisfied with any of my reasons, I don’t see 
how we’re to finish the business onless we go back to the old- 
time law, and strip to the buff for a fight. You used to brag of 
yourself, and you know what I am, so there’s no use to ax about 
size and weight. If you speak agreeable to your conscience, 
and want nothing better than the truth, then, I don’t see but a 
i igilar fight will give it to us ; for, as I told you afore, I nevei 
yet did fight on the wrong side, that I didn’t come up onder 
most.” 

The scout, in the earnestness with which he entertained and 
expressed his own views and wishes, did not suffer himself to 
perceive some of the obstacles which lay in the way of a trans* 


NEW PRINCIPLES DISCUSSED BY OLD LAWS. 


145 


action such as he so deliberately and seriously proposed. He 
was equally inaccessible to the several attempts of his companion 
to lessen his regards for a project, to which the deficiency of a 
limb, on the part of one of the disputants, seemed to suggest a 
most conclusive objection. When, at length, he came to a 
pause, the landlord repeated his former reproachful reminiscence 
of a period when the challenge of the scout would not have 
gone unanswered by defiance. 

“ But now !” and he lifted the stump of his remaining arm, in 
melancholy answer. 

“It’s well for you to talk big, John Bannister; I know 
you’re a strong man, and a spry. You wa’n’t called Supple 
Jack for nothing. But there was a time when Isaac Muggs 
wouldn’t ha’ stopped to measure inches with you in a fair up and 
• down, hip and hip, hug together. I could lia’ thrown you once, 
I’m certain. But what’s the chance now with my one arm, in 
a hug with a man that’s got two ? It’s true, and 1 believe it, 
that God gives strength in a good cause ; but it’s quite unrea- 
sonable for me to hope for any help, seeing as how I can’t help 
myself, no how. I couldn’t even come to the grip, however 
much I wanted to.” 

“ Sure enough, Muggs, and 1 didn’t think of that, at all. It 
was so natural to think that a man that let his tongue wag so 
free as your’n had two arms at least to back it. I’m mighty 
sorry, Muggs, that you ain’t, for it’s a great disapp’intment.” 

This was spoken with all the chagrin of a man who was dis- 
comfited in his very last hope of triumph. 

“Well, you see I ain’t,” said the other, sulkily; “so there’s 
no more to be said about it.” • 

“Yes; but you ain’t come to a right mind yit. It’s cl’ar to 
me, Isaac Muggs, that one thing or t’other must be done. You 
must cut loose from the Black Riders, or cut loose from us. 
You knows the resk of the one, and I can pretty much tell you 
what’s the resk of the other. Now, there’s a notion hits me 
and it’s one that comes nateral enough to a man that’s fou’t, in 
his time, in a hundred different ways. One of them ways, whei 
1 had to deal with a fellow that was so cl’ar behind me ic. 
strength that he couldn’t match me as we stood, was to tie a 

7 


146 


THE SCOUT. 


hand behind my back, or a leg to a pine sapling, and make my 
self, as it wor, a lame man till the fight was over. Now, look 
you, Muggs, if it’s the truth your really after, I don’t care much 
if I try that old-fashion wyy with you. I’m willing to buckle 
my right arm to my back.” 

“ Swounds, Supple, how you talk ! Come, take a drink.” 

‘ I’ll drink when the time comes, Isaac Muggs, and when it’s 
needful; but jest now, when it’s the truth I’m after, I don’t suf- 
fer no diversions. I stick as close to it, I tell you, as I does to 
my inimy. I don’t stop to drink or rest till it’s a-lying fair be- 
fore me. Now, it’s needful for your sake, Muggs, that you come 
to a right sense of the reason in this business. It’s needful that 
you give up Black Riders, tories, British, Ned Conway, ugly 
faces, and the old sarpent. My conscience is mightily troubled 
becaise I stood for you, and it’s needful that you come to a right 
onderstanding afore I leave you. I’ve sworn it, Isaac Muggs, 
by Polly Longlips, as we rode along together, and Mossfoot 
pricked up his ears as if he onderstood it all, and was a witness 
for us both. Now, you know what an oath by Polly Longlips 
means, Isaac. It means death to the inimy — sartin death, at 
any reasonable distance. I don’t want your life, man ; — by the 
hokey, I don’t; — and that’s why I want to put the reason in 
you, so that you might say to me at once that you’re done with 
these black varmints, for ever. They can do you no good — 
they can’t help you much longer ; and the time’s a-coming, Isaao 
Muggs, when the wings will sweep this country, along the Wate- 
ree, and the Congaree, and Santee, with a broom of fire, and wo 
to the skunk, when that time comes, that can’t get clear of the 
brush — wo to the ’coon that’s caught sticking in his hollow ! 
There’s no reason you shouldn’t onderstand the liberty-cause, 
and there’s every reason why you should. But as you can’t 

onderstand my argyment ” 

“Well, but Supple, you’re always in such a hurry ! — ” 

“ No hurry — never hurried a man in argyment in all my lift : 
but when lie’s so tarnal slow to onderstand — ” 

“That’s it, Supple, I’m a slow man; but I begin to see .i/e 
sense of what you say.” 

“Well, that’s something like, Muggs ; but a good gripe al tit 


NEW PRINCIPLES DISCUSSED RY OLD LAWS. 


147 


the ribs, a small trig upon the hips, pretic’larly if we ax the hies 
sing of Providence upon the argyment, will be about as good a 
way as any to help your onderstanding to a quicker motion. 
It’ll put your slow pace into a smart canter.” 

“ Pslio, Supple ! you’re not serious in thinking that there’* 
anything in that ?” 

“ Ain’t I, then ? By gum, you don’t know me, Isaac Muggs, 
if you think as you say. Now, what’s to hender the truth from 
coming out in a fair tug between us ? Here we stand, both tall 
men, most like in height and breadth, nigh alike in strength by 
most people’s count ; about tlie same age, and pretty much the 
same experience. We’ve had our tugs and tears, both of us, in 
every way; though, to be sure, you got the worst of it, so far as 
we count the arm ; but as I tie up mine, there’s no differences 
Now I say, here we stand on the banks of the Wateree. No- 
body sees us but the great God of all, that sees everything in 
nater’. He’s here, the Bible says — lie’s here, and thar, and 
everywhar, and He sees everything everywhar. You believe 
all that, don’t you, Isaac Muggs ? for ef you don’t believe that, 
why, there’s no use in talking at all. There’s an eend of the 
question.” 

The landlord, though looking no little mystified, muttered 
assent ; and this strange teacher of a new, or, rather, reviver of 
an old faith, proceeded with accustomed volubility : — 

“Well, then, here, as we are, we call upon God, and tell 
him how we stand. Though, to be sure, as he knows all, the 
telling wouldn’t be such a needeessity. But, never mind— we 
tell him. I say to him, Here’s Isaac Muggs — it ain’t easy for 
him to onderstand this argyment, and unless he onderstands, it’s 
a matter of life and death to him; — you recollect, Muggs, about 
the oath I tuk on Polly Longlips. He wants to larn, and it’s 
needful to make % sign which ’ll come home to his onderstanding 
more cl’arly than argyment by man’s word of mouth. Now then 
we pray — and you must kneel to it beforehand, Muggs. I’ll 
go aside under one tree, and do you take another ; and we’ll 
make a hearty prayer after the proper sign. If the Lord says 
I’m right, why you’ll know it mighty soon by the sprawl I’ll 
give you; but if I’m wrong, the tumble will be the other way 


148 


THE SCOUT. 


and I’ll make the confession, though it’ll he a might) bittei 
needcessity, I tell you. But J ain’t afeard. I’m sartin that my 
argyment for our rights is a true argymcnt, and I’ll say my 
prayers with that sort of sartinty, that it would do your heart 
good if you could only feel about the same time.” 

“ If I thought you was serious, Jack Bannister ; but I’m 
jub’ous about it.” 

“ Don’t be jub’ous. I’m ser’ous as a sarpent. I b’lievo in 
God — I b’lieve he’ll justify the truth, whenever we axes him in 
airnest for it ! My old mother — God rest her bones and bless 
her sperrit ! — she’s told me of more than twenty people that’s 
tried a wrestle for the truth. There was one man in partic’lar 
that she knows in Georgia : his name was Bostick. He used to 
be a drummer in General Oglethorpe’s Highland regiment. 
Well, another man, a sodger in the same regiment, made an 
accusation agin Bostick for stealing a watch-coat, and the sar- 
cumstances went mighty strong agin Bostick. But he stood it 
out; and though he never shot a rifle in his life before, he 
'flaked the truth and his honesty on a shot ; and, by the liokey, 
though, as I tell you, he never lifted rifle to his sight before, he 
put the bullet clean through the mouth and jaw of the sodger, 
and cut off a small slice of his tongue, which was, perhaps, as 
good a judgment agin a man for false swearing as a rifle-shot 
could make. Well, ’twa’n’t a month after that when they found 
it was an Ingin that had stole the coat, and so Bostick was 
shown to be an honest man, by God’s blessing, in every way.” 

There was something so conclusive on the subject in this, and 
one or two similar anecdotes, which Supple Jack told, and which, 
having heard them from true believers in his youth, had led to 
his own adoption of the experiment, that the landlord, Muggs, 
offered no further doubts or objections. The earnestness of his 
companion became contagious, and, with far less enthusiasm of 
character, he was probably not unwilling — in order to the 
proper adoption of a feeling which was growing momently in 
favor in his eyes — to resort to the wager of battle as an easy 
mode of making a more formal declaration in behalf of the domi- 
nant faction of the state. The novelty of the suggestion had its 
recommendation also • and but few words more were wasted. 


THE TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH. 


149 


before the two went, forth to a pleasant, and shady grass-plot, 
which lay some two hundred yards further in the hollow of the 
wood, in order that the test so solemnly recommended, on such 
lugh authority, should he fairly made in the presence of that 
High Judge only, whose arbitrament, without intending any 
irreverence, was so earnestly invoked by the simple woodman 
of Congaree. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH. 

No change could have been suddenly greater than that which 
was produced upon the countenance and conduct of John Ban- 
nister, when he found himself successful in bringing the landlord 
to the desired issue. His seriousness was all discarded, — his 
intense earnestness of air and tone, and a manner even playful 
and sportive, succeeded to that which had been so stern and 
sombre. He congratulated Muggs and himself, equally, on the 
strong probability, so near at hand, of arriving at the truth by a 
process so direct, and proceeded to make his arrangements for 
the conflict with all the buoyancy of a boy traversing the play- 
ground with “ leap-frog” and “ hop o’ my thumb.” 

The landlord did not betray the same degree of eagerness, 
but he was not backward. He might have had his doubts about 
the issue, for Supple Jack had a fame in those days which 
spread far and wide along the three contiguous rivers. Wher- 
ever a pole-boat had made its way, there had the name of Jack 
Bannister found repeated echoes. But Muggs was a fearless 
man, and he had, besides, a very tolerable degree of self-assu- 
rance, which led him to form his own expectations and hopes of 
success. If he had any scruples at all, they arose rather from 
his doubt, whether the proposed test of truth would be a fair 
one — a doubt which seemed very fairly overcome in his mind, 
as indeed it should be in that of the reader, if full justice is done 


150 


THE SCOUT. 


to tlie final argument which the scout addressed to his adversary 
on this subject. 

<4 There never was a quarrel and a fight yet that didn’t come 
out of a wish to Parn or to teach the truth. What’s King 
George a-fighting us for this very moment ? Why, to make us 
h'lieve in him. If he licks us, why we’ll believe in him; and 
if we licks him, ’gad, I’m thinking he’ll have to b’lieve in us. 
Aint that cl’ar, Muggs ? So, let’s fall to — if I licks you, I 
reckon you’ll know where to look for the truth for ever after ; 
for I’ll measure your back on it, and your breast under it, and 
you’ll feel it in all your bones.” 

The gr^md was chosen — a pleasant area beneath a shadow- 
ing grove of oaks, covered with a soft green ward, which seemed 
to lessen, in the minds of the combatants, the dangers of discom- 
fiture. But when the parties began to strip for the conflict, a 
little difficulty suggested itself which had not before disturbed 
the thoughts of either. How was ,the superfluous arm of 
Supple Jack to be tied up? Muggs could evidently perform 
no such friendly office ; but a brief pause given to their opera- 
tions enabled the scout to arrange it easily. A running noose 
was made in the rope, into which he thrust the unnecessary 
member, then gave the end of the- line to his opponent, who 
contrived to draw it around his body, and bind the arm securely 
to his side — an operation easily understood by all schoolboys 
who have ever been compelled to exercise their wits in securing 
a balance of power, in a like way, among ambitious rivals. 

As they stood, front to front opposed, the broad chest, square 
shoulders, voluminous muscle, and manly compass of the two, 
naturally secured their mutual admiration. Supple Jack could 
not refrain from expressing his satisfaction. 

“ It’s a pleasure, Isaac Muggs, to have a turn with a man of 
your make. I ha’n’t seen a finer buzzum for a fight this many 
a day. I think, ef anything, you’re a splinter or two fuller 
across the breast than me; — it may be fat, and ef so, it’s the 
worse for you ; but ef it’s the solid grain and gristle, then it’s 
only the worse for me. It makes me saddish enough when I 
look on sich a buzzum as yourn, to think that-youre cut off 
one half in a fair allowance of arm. But I don’t think that’ll 


THE TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH. 


151 


work agin you in this ’bout, for, you see, you’re used to doing 
without it, and making up in a double use of t’other ; and I’m 
beginning a’ready to feel as if I warn’t of no use at all in the 
best part of my body. Let’s feel o’ your heft, old fellow.” 

A mutual lift being taken, they prepared to take hold for 
the grand trial; and Supple Jack soon discovered, as he had 
suspected, that the customary disuse of the arm gave to his 
opponent an advantage in this sort of conflict, which, taken in 
connection with his naturally strong build of frame, rendered 
the task before him equally serious and doubtful. But, with a 
shake of the head as he made this acknowledgment, he laid his 
chin on the shoulder of the landlord, grasped him vigorously 
about the body ; and Muggs, having secured a similar grasp, 
gave him the word, and they both swung round, under a mutual 
impulse, which, had there been any curious spectator at hand, 
would have left him very doubtful, for a long time, as to the 
distinct proprietorship of the several legs which so rapidly 
chased each other in the air. 

An amateur in such matters — a professional lover of the 
“ fancy” — would make a ravishing picture of this conflict. The 
alternations of seeming success — the hopes, the fears, the occa- 
sional elevations of the one party, and the depressions of the 
other — the horizontal tendency of this or that head and shoul- 
der — the yielding of this frame and the staggering of that leg, 
might, under the pencil of a master, be made to awaken as 
many sensibilities in the spectator as did ever the adroit roguer- 
ies of the modern Jack Sheppard. But these details must be 
left to artists of their own — to the Cruikshankses ! — or that 
more popular, if less worthy fraternity, the “ Quiz, “ Phiz,” 

“ Biz,” “ Tiz,” &c., tribe of artists in Bow-street tastes and 
experiences, who do the visage of a rascal con amove, and con- 
trive always that vice shall find its representation in ugliness. 
We have neither the tastos nor the talents which are needful 
to such artist, and shall not even attempt, by mere word-paint- 
ing, to supply our deficiencies. Enough to say, that our com- 
batants struggled with rare effort and no small share of dex- 
terity as well as muscle. Muggs was no chicken, as Supple Jack 
was pleased to assure him ; and the latter admitted that he 


152 


THE SCOUT. 


himself was a tough colt, not easy to be put upon four legs, 
when his natural rights demanded only two. The conflict was 
protracted till both parties were covered with perspiration. The 
turf, forming a ring of twenty feet round or more, was beaten 
smooth, and still the affair was undecided. Neither had yet. 
received a fall. But Supple Jack, for reasons of his own, began 
to feel that the argument was about to be settled in favor of 
right principles. 

“ Your breath’s coming ret her quick now, Isaac Muggs — I’m 
thinking you’ll soon be convarted ! But it’s a mighty strong 
devil you had in you, and I’m afeard lie’ll make my ribs ache 
for a week. I’ll sprawl him, though, I warrant you. 

“Don’t be too sartin, Jack,” gasped the other. 

“ Don’t ! — Why, love you, Muggs, you couldn’t say that 
short speech over again for the life of you.” 

“ Couldn’t eh !” 

“No, not for King George’s axing.” 

“ Think so, eh ?” 

“ Know so, man. Now, look to it. I’ll only ax three tugs 
more. There — there’s one.” 

“ Nothing done, Jack.” 

“ Two — three ! and where are you now ?” cried the exulting 
scout, as he deprived his opponent of grasp and footing at the 
same moment, and whirled him, dizzy and staggering, heels up 
and head to the earth. 

But he was not suffered to reach it by that operation only. 
His course was accelerated by other hands; and three men, 
rushing with whoop and halloo from the copse near which the 
struggle had been carried on, grappled with the fallen landlord, 
and plied him with a succession of blows, the least of which was 
unnecessary for his overthrow. 

It seemed that Supple Jack recognised these intruders almost 
in the moment of their appearance ; but so sudden was their 
# onset, and so great their clamor, that his fierce cry to arrest 
them was unheard, and he could only make his wishes known 
by adopting the summary process of knocking two of them 
down, by successive blr>w S from the only fist which was left free 
Coi exercise 


THE TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH. 


158 


“ How now ! Who ax’d you to put your dirty fingers into 
my dish, Olin Massey ? or you, Bob Jones ? or you, Payton 
Burns? This is your bravery, is it, to beat a man after I’ve 
down’d him, eh ?” 

“ But we didn’t know that ’twas over, Seargeant. We thought 
you was a-wanting help,” replied the fellow who was called 
Massey — it would seem in mockery only. He was a little, 
dried-up, withered atomy — a jaundiced “ sand-lapper,” or “clay- 
eater,” from the Wassamasaw country — whose insignificant size 
and mean appearance did very inadequate justice to his resolute, 
fierce, and implacable character. 

“ And if I was a-wanting help, was you the man to give me 
any ? Go ’long, Olin Massey — you’re a very young chap to be 
here. What makes you here, I want to know ?” 

“ Why, didn’t you send us on the scout, jist here, in this very 
place ?” said the puny but pugnacious person addressed, with a 
fierceness of tone and gesture, and a fire in his eye, which the 
feebleness of his form did not in the least seem to warrant. 

“ Yes, to be sure ; but why didn’t you come ? I’ve been here 
a matter of two hours by the sun ; and as you didn’t come, 1 
reckoned you had taken track after some tory varmints, and had 
gone deeper into the swamp. You’ve dodged some tories, eh ?” 

“ No, ha’n’t seen a soul.” 

“ Then, by the liokey, Olin Massey, you’ve been squat on a 
log, playing old sledge for pennies !” 

The scouting party looked down in silence. The little man 
from Wassamasaw felt his anger subside within him. 

“ Corporal Massey, give me them painted darlings out of your 
pockets, before they’re the death of you. By old natur, betwixt 
cards and rum, I’ve lost more of my men than by Cunningham’s 
bullets or Tarleton’s broadswords. Give me theift cards, Olin 
Massey, and make your respects to my good natur, that I don’t 
blow you to the colonel.” 

The offender obeyed. He drew from his pocket, in silence, a 
pack of the dirtiest cards that ever were thumbed over a pine 
log, and delivered them to his superior with the air of a school- 
boy from whom the master had cruelly taken, “ at one fell 
*woop,” top, marbles, and ball. 


154 


THE SCOUT. 


“ There,” said Supple Jack, as lie thrust them into his pocket 
— “ I’ll put them up safely, boys, and you shall have ’em ag’in, 
for a whole night — after our next brush with the tones, C-o 
you now and git your nags in readiness, while I see to Muggo. 
! ’ll jine you directly at the red clay.” 

When they had disappeared, he turned to the landlord, who 
had meanwhile risen, though rather slowly, from the earth, and 
now stood a silent spectator of the interview. 

“ Now, Muggs, I reckon we’ll have to try the tug over agin. 
These blind boys of mine put in jest a moment too soon. They 
helped to flatten you, I’m thinking ; and so, if you ain’t 
quite satisfied which way the truth is, it’s easy to go it over 
agin.” 

The offer was more liberal than Muggs expected or desired. 
He was already sufficiently convinced. 

“ No, no, Supple ; you’re too much for me !” 

“ It’s the truth that’s too much for you, Muggs — not me ! J 
reckon you’re satisfied now which way the truth is. You’ve got 
a right onderstanding in this business.” 

The landlord made some admissions, the amount of which 
taken without circumlocution, was, that he had been whipped in 
a fair fight ; and, according to all the laws of war, as well as 
common sense, that he was now at the disposal of the victor. 
His acknowledgments were sufficiently satisfactory. 

“ We’ve prayed for it, Muggs, and jest as we prayed we go* 
it. You’re rubbing your legs and your sides, but what’s a bruise 
and a pain in the side, or even a broken rib, when we’ve got the 
truth '] After that, a hurt of the body is a small matter ; and 
then a man don’t much fear any sort of danger. Let me know 
that I’m in the right way, and that justice is on my side, and 1 
don’t see the danger, though it stands in the shape of the bigges 1 
gun -muzzle that ever bellowed from the walls of Charlestown ir- 
the great siege. Now, Muggs, since you say now that you un- 
derstand the argymcnt I set you, and that you agree to have 
your liberties the same as the rest of us, I’ll jist open your eyep 
to a little of the resk you’ve been a-running for the last few 
days. Look — read this here letter, and see if you can recollec* 
the writing.” 


THE TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH. 155 

Tlic blood left the cheeks of the landlord the instant that the 
scout handed him the letter. 

“ Where did you find it, Supple ?” he gasped, apprehensively. 

“ Find it ! I first found the sculp of the chap that carried it,” 
was the cool reply. “ But you answer to the writing, don’t you 
— it’s your’n ?” 

“ Well, I reckon you know it, Supple, without my saying so. r * 

‘ Beckon I do, Muggs — it’s pretty well known in these parts; 
and s’pose any of our boys but me had got hold of it ! Where 
would you be, I wonder? — swinging on one of the oak limbs 
before your own door ; dangling a good pair of legs of no sort 
of use to yourself or anybody else. But I’m your friend, Muggs ; 
a better friend to you than you’ve been to yourself. I come 
and argy the matter with you, and reason with you to your 
onderstanding, and make a convarsion of you without trying to 
frighten you into it. Now that you see the error of your ways, 
I show you their danger also. This letter is tory all over, but 
there’s one thing in it that made me have marcy upon you — 
it’s here, jist in the middle, where you beg that bloody tory, 
Ned Conway, to have marcy on his brother. Anybody that 
speaks friendly, or kind, of Clarence Conway, I’ll help him if I 
can. Now, Muggs, I’ll go with you to your house, and there 
I’ll burn this letter in your own sight, so that it’ll never rise up 
in judgment agin you. But you must make a clean breast of 
it. You must tell me all you know, that I may be sure you feel 
the truth according to the lesson, which, with the helping of 
God, I’ve been able to give you.” 

The landlord felt himself at the mercy of the scout; but the 
generous treatment which he had received from the worth)" fid- 
low — treatment so unwonted at that period of wanton bloodshed 
and fierce cruelty — inclined him favorably to the cause, the argu- 
ments for which had been produced by so liberal a disputant. His 
own policy, to which we have already adverted more than once , 
suggested far better ; and, if the landlord relented at all in his 
revelations, it was with the feeling — natural, perhaps, to every 
mind, however lowly — which makes it revolt at the idea of 
becoming treacherous, even to the party which it has joined for 
purposes of treachery. The information which the scout ob 


156 


rHE SCOUT. 


tained, and wliicli was valuable to the partisans, lie drew from 
the relator by piecemeal. Every item of knowledge was drawn 
from him by its own leading question, and yielded with broken 
utterance, and the half-vacant look of one who is only in part 
conscious, as he is only in part willing. 

“ Pretty well, Muggs, though you don’t come out like a man 
who felt the argyment at the bottom of his onderstanding 
There’s something more now. In this bit of writing there’s 
line or two about one Peter Flagg, who, it seems, carried forty- 
one niggers to town last January, and was to ship ’em to the 
West Injies. Now, can you tell if he did ship them niggers?” 

“ I can’t exactly now, Supple — it’s onbeknown to me.” 

“ But how come you to write about this man and them nig- 
gers ?” 

“ Why, you see, Peter Flagg was here looking after the 
captain.” 

“ Ah ! — he was here, was>he ?” 

“ Yes j he jined the captain just before Butler’s men gin him 
that chase.” 

“ He’s with Ned Conway then, is he ?” 

“ No, I reckon not. He didn’t stay with the captain but half 
a day.” 

“Ah ! ha! — and where did he go then?” 

“ Somewhere across the river.” 

“Below, I’m thinking.” 

“ Yes, he took the lower route ; I reckon he went toward the 
Santee.” 

“ Isaac Muggs, don’t you know that the business of Pete 
Flagg is to ship stolen niggers to the West Injy islands?” 

“Well, Supple, I believe it is, though I don’t know.” 

That’s enough about Pete. Now, Muggs, when did you see 
Watson Gray last? You know the man I mean. He cornea 
from the Congaree near Granby. He’s the one that watches 
Brier Park for Ned Conway, and brings him in every report 
about the fine bird that keeps there. You know what bird I 
mean, don’t you ?” 

“Miss Flora, I reckon.” 

“A very good reckon. Well! you know Gray?” 


THE TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH. 15" 

“Yes — lie’s a great scout — the best, after you, I’m think- 
ing, on the Congaree.” 

“ Before me, Muggs,” said the scout, with a sober shake of 
the head. “ He’s before me, or I’d ha’ trapped him many’s the 
long day ago. He’s the only outlyer that’s beyond my heft, 
that I acknowledge on the river : but he’s a skunk — a bad 
chap about the heart. His bosom’s full of black places. He 
loves to do ugly things, and to make a brag of ’em afterward, 
and that’s a bad character for a good scout. But that’s neither 
here nor thar. I only want you now to think up, and tell me 
when he was here last.” 

“ Well ! — ” 

“Ah, don’t stop to ‘well’ about it,” cried the other impa- 
tiently — “ speak out like a bold man that’s jest got the truth. 
Wa’n’t Watson Gray here some three days ago — before the 
troop came down — and didn’t he leave a message by word of 
mouth with you ? Answer me that, Muggs, like a good whig as 
you ought to be.” 

“ It’s true as turpentine, Supple ; but, Lord love you, how did 
you come to guess it ?” 

“No matter that ! — up now, and tell me what that same mes- 
sage was.” 

“ That’s a puzzler, I reckon, for I didn’t onderstand it all my- 
self. There was five sticks and two bits of paper — on one was 
a long string of multiplication and ’rithmetic — figures and all 
that ! — on the other was a sort of drawing that looked most like 
a gal on horseback.” 

“ Eli ! — The gal on horseback was nateral enough. Perhaps 
I can make out that ; but the bits of stick and ’rithmetic is all 
gibberish. Wa’n’t there nothing that you had to say by word 
of mouth to Ned Conway ?” 

“ Yes, to be sure. He left word as how the whigs was get- 
ting thicker and thicker — how Sumter and Lee marked all the 
road from Granby down to Orangeburg with their horse-tracks, 
and never afeard ; and how Greene was a-pushing across tow- 
ard Ninety-Six, where he was guine to ’siege Cruger.” 

“Oil news, Muggs, and I reckon you’ve kept back the best 


158 


THE SCOUT. 


for the last. What did lie have to say ’bout Miss Flora ? Speak 
up to that !” 

“ Not a word. I don’t think he said anything more, onless it 
• was something about boats being a-plenty, and no danger of 
horse-tracks on the river.” 

“ There’s a meaning in that ; and I must spell it out,” said 
the scout ; “ but now, Muggs, another question or two. Who 
was the man that Ned Conway sent away prisoner jest before 
day ?” 

“ Lord, Supple, you sees everything !” ejaculated the landlord. 
Pressed by the wily scout, he related, with tolerable correctness, 
all the particulars of the affray the night before between the 
captain of the Black Eiders and his subordinate ; and threw 
such an additional light upon the causes of quarrel between them 
as suggested to the scout a few new measures of policy. 

“ Well, Muggs,” said he, at the close, “I’ll tell you something 
in return for all you’ve told me. My boys caught that same 
Stockton and trapped his guard in one hour after they took the 
road ; and I’m glad to find, by putting side by side what they 
confessed and wliat you tell me, that you’ve stuck to the truth 
like a gentleman and a whig. They didn’t tell me about the 
lieutenant’s wanting to be cappin, but that’s detarmined me to 
parole the fellow that he may carry on his mischief in the troop. 
I’m going to leave you now, Muggs; but you’ll see an old man 
coming here to look after a horse about midday. Give him a 
drink, and say to him, that you don’t know nothing about the 
horse, but there's a hound on track after something, that went 
barking above, three hours before. That’ll sarve his purpose 
and mfne too : and now, God bless you, old boy, and, remember. 
I’m your friend, and I can do you better sarvice now than any 
two Black Eiders of the gang. As I’ve convartcd you, I’ll 
stand by you, and I’ll never be so far off in the swamp that I 
can’t hear your grunting, and come out to your help. So, good- 
by, and no more forgitting of that argyment.” 

“And where are you going now, Supple?” 

“ Psho, boy, that’s telling. Was I to let you know that, 
Watson Gray might worm it out from under your tongue, with 
out taking a wrastle for it. I’ll tell yoi’ when I come back.” 


GLIMPSE?’ OF PASSION AND ITS FRUITS. 


159 


And with a good-lmmored chuckle the scout disappeared, 
leaving the landlord to meditate, at his leisure, upon the value of 
those arguments which had made him in one day resign a faith 
which had been cherished as long — as it had proved profitable. 
M uggs had no hope that the new faith would prove equally so ; 
but if it secured to him the goodly gains of the past, he was sat- 
isfied. Like many of the tories at this period, he received a 
sudden illumination, which showed him in one moment the errors 
for which he had been fighting five years. Let not this surprise 
our readers. In the closing battles of the Revolution in South 
Carolina, many were the tories, converted to the patriot cause, 
who, at the eleventh hour, displayed the most conspicuous 
bravery fighting on the popular side. And this must not be 
suffered to lower them in our opinion. The revolutionary war, 
in South Carolina, did not so much divide the people, because 
of the tendencies to loyalty, or liberty, on either hand, as be- 
cause of social and other influences — personal and sectional 
feuds — natural enough to a new country, in which one third of 
the people were of foreign birth. 


CHAPTER XY. 

GLIMPSES OF PASSION AND ITS FRUITS. 

Supple Jack soon joined his commander, bringing with him, 
undiminished by use or travel, all the various budgets of intelli- 
gence which he had collected in his scout. He had dismissed 
the insubordinate lieutenant of the Black Riders on parole ; not 
without suffering him to hear, as a familiar on (lit along the 
river, that Captain Morton was about to sacrifice the troop at 
the first opportunity, and fly with all his booty from the country. 

“I’ve know’d, ’’said he to himself, after Stockton took his 
departure, “I’ve know’d a smaller spark than that set off a 
whole barrel of gunpowder.” 

To his colonel, having delivered all the intelligence which bo 


160 


THE SCOUT. 


hart gained of the movements as well of the public as private 
enemy, he proceeded, as usual, to give such counsel as the na- 
ture of his revelations seemed to suggest. This may be summed 
up in brief, without fatiguing the reader with the detailed con- 
versation which ensued between them in their examination of 
the subject. 

“ From what I see, colonel, Ned Conway is gone below. It’s 
true he did seem to take the upper route, but Massey can’t find 
the track after he gits to Fisher’s Slue” (diminutive for sluice). 
“There, I reckon, he chopped right round, crossed the slue, I’m 
thinking, and dashed below. Well, what’s he gone below for, 
and wliat’s Pete Flagg gone for across to the Santee? — Pete, 
that does nothing but ship niggers for the British officers. They 
all see that they’re got to go, and they’re for making hay while 
the sun is still a-shining. Now, I’m thinking that Ned Conway 
is after your mother’s niggers. He’ll steal ’em and ship ’em by 
Pete Flagg to the West Indies, and be the first to follow, the 
moment that Bawdon gits licked by Greene. It’s cl’ar to me 
that you ought to go below and see about the business.” 

The arguments of the woodman were plausible enough, and 
Clarence Conway felt them in their fullest force. But he had 
his doubts about the course alleged to be taken by his kinsman, 
and a feeling equally selfish, perhaps, but more noble intrinsi- 
cally, made him fancy that his chief interest lay above. He 
was not insensible to his mother’s and his own probable loss, 
should the design of Edward Conway really be such as Ban- 
nister suggested, but a greater stake, in his estimation, lay in 
the person of the fair Flora Middleton ; and he could not bring 
himself to believe, valuing her charms as he did himself, that 
his kinsman would forego such game for the more mercenary 
objects involved in the other adventure. 

The tenor of the late interview between himself and the chief 
of the Black Riders, had forced his mind to brood with serious 
anxiety on the probable fortunes of this lady ; and his own 
hopes and fears becoming equally active at the same time, the 
exulting threats and bold assumptions of Edward Conway — so 
very different from the sly humility of his usual deportment — 
awakened all his apprehensions. He resolved to go forward t,o 


GLIMPSES OF PASSTON AND ITS FRUITS. 161 

the upper Congaree, upon the pleasant banks of which stood 
the princely domains of the Middleton family ; persuaded, as he 
was, that the rival with whom he contended for so great a 
treasure, equally wily and dishonorable, had in contemplation 
some new villany, which, if not seasonably met, would result 
in equal loss to himself and misery to the maiden of his heart. 

Vet he did not resolve thus, without certain misgivings and 
self-reproaches. His mother was quite as dear to him as ever 
mother was to the favorite son of her affections. He knew the 
danger in which her property stood, and was not heedless of the 
alarm which she would experience, in her declining years and 
doubtful health, at the inroad of any marauding foe. The ar- 
guments of a stronger passion, however, prevailed above these 
apprehensions, and he contented himself with a determination to 
make the best of his way below, as soon as he had assured him- 
self of the safety and repose of everything above. Perhaps, 
too, he had a farther object in this contemplated visit to Flora 
Middleton. The counsel of Bannister on a previous occasion, 
which urged upon him to bring his doubts to conviction on the 
subject of the course which her feelings might be disposed to 
take, found a corresponding eagerness in his own heart to arrive 
at a knowledge, always so desirable to a lover, and which he 
seeks in fear and trembling as well as in hope. 

“ I will but see her,” was his unuttered determination, “I will 
but see her, and see that she is safe, and hear at once her final 
answer. These doubts are too painful for endurance ! Better 
to hear the worst at once, than live always in apprehension 
of it.” 

Leaving the youthful partisan to pursue his own course, let us 
now turn for a while to that of Edward Morton, and the gloomy 
and fierce banditti which he commanded. He has already 
crossed the Wateree, traversed the country between that river 
and the Congaree ; and after various small adventures, such as 
might be supposed likely to occur in such a progress, but which 
do not demand from us any more special notice, we find him on 
the banks of the latter stream, in the immediate neighborhood 
ot the spot where it receives into its embrace the twin though 
warring waters of the Saluda and the Broad — a spot, subse 


162 


THE SCOUT. 


rpiently, better distinguished as the chosen site of one of the 
loveliest towns of the state — the seat of its capital, and of a 
degree of refinement, worth, courtesy, and taste, which are 
not often equalled in any region, and are certainly surpassed in 
none. 

Columbia, however, at the period of our story, was not in 
existence; and the meeting of its tributary waters, their stri- 
ving war, incessant rivalry, and the continual clamors of their 
strife, formed the chief distinction of the spot ; and conferred 
upon it no small degree of picturesque vitality and loveliness. 
A few miles below, on the opposite side of the stream, stood 
then the flourishing town of Granby — a place of considerable 
magnitude and real importance to the wants of the contiguous 
country, but now fallen into decay and utterly deserted. A gar- 
risoned town of the British, it had just before this period been 
surrendered by Colonel Maxwell to the combined American force 
under Sumter and Lee — an event which counselled the chief 
of the Black Riders to an increased degree of caution as he 
approached a neighborhood so likely to be swarming with en- 
emies. 

Here we may’ as well communicate to the reader such por- 
tions of the current history of the time, as had not yet entirely 
reached this w r ily marauder. While he was pursuing his personal 
and petty objects of plunder on the Wateree, Lord Rawdon 
had fled from Camden, which he left in flames ; Sumter had 
taken Orangeburg ; Fort Motte had surrendered to Marion ; 
the British had been compelled to evacuate their post at Nelson’s 
ferry ; and. the only fortified place of which they now kept 
possession in the interior was that of Ninety-Six ; a station of 
vast importance to their interests in the back country, and 
which, accordingly, they resolved to defend to the last extremity 

But though ignorant of some of the events here brought 
together, Edward Morton was by no means ignorant of the dif- 
ficulties which were accumulating around the fortunes of the 
British, and which, he naturally enough concluded, must result 
m these, and even worse disasters. Of the fall of Granby ho 
was aware ; of the audacity and number of the American par- 
ties, his scouts hourly informed him, even if his own frequent 


GLIMPSES OF PASSION AND ITS FRUITS. 


163 


and narrow escapes had failed to awaken hiyi« to a senate of the 
prevailing dangers. But, governed bp an intense selfishness, 
he had every desire to seek, in increased caution, for the promo- 
tion oMhose interests and objects, without which his patriotism 
might ^fcssibly have been less prudent, and of the proper kind. 
He hacWieither wish nor motive to go forward rashly ;3(8te, ac- 
cordingly, we find hin#advancing to the Saluda, with the slow, 
wary footsteps of one who looks to behold his enemy starting 
forth, without summons of trumpet, from the bosom of every 
brake along the route. 

It was noon when his troop reached the high banks of the 
river, the murmur of whose falls, like the distant mutterings of 
ocean upon some island-beach, were heard, pleasantly soothing, 
in the sweet stillness of a forest noon. A respite was given to 
the employments of the troop. Scouts were sent out, videttes 
stationed, and the rest surrendered themselves to repose, each 
after his own fashion : some to slumber, some to play, while 
others, like their captain, wandered off to the river banks, to 
angle or to meditate, as their various moods might incline. 

Morton went apart from the rest, and found . a sort of hiding- 
place upon a rock immediately overhanging the river, where, 
surrounded by an umbrageous forest-growth, he threw his person 
at length, and yielded himself up to those brooding cares which 
he felt were multiplying folds about his mind, in the intan gling 
grasp of which it worked slowly and without its usual ease and 
elasticity. 

The meditations are inevitably mournful with a spirit such as 
his. Guilt is a thing of isolation always, even when most sur- 
rounded by its associates and operations. Its very insecurity 
tends to its isolation as completely as its selfishness. Edward 
Morton felt all this. He had been toiling, and not in vain, for 
a mercenary object. His spoils had been considerable. He 
had hoarded up a secret treasure in another country, secure from 
the vicissitudes which threatened every fortune in that where 
he had won it ; but he himself was insecure. Treachery, he 
began to believe, and not a moment too soon, was busy all 
around him. He had kept down fear, and doubt, and distrust, 
by a life of continual action ; but it was in moments of repose 


164 


THE SCOUT. 


like this, that he himself found none. It was then that his fears 
grew busy — that he began to distrust his fate, and to apprehend 
that all that future, which he fondly fancied to pass in serenity 
of fortune, if not of mind and feeling, would yet be clouded and 
compassed with denial. His eye, stretching away on either 
hand, beheld the two chafing rivers rushing downward to that 
embrace which they seem at once to desire and to avoid. A 
slight barrier of land and shrubbery interposes to prevent their 
too sudden meeting. Little islands throw themselves between, 
as if striving to thwart the fury of their wild collision, but in 
vain ! The impetuous waters force their way against every 
obstruction ; and wild and angry, indeed, as if endued with 
moral energies and a human feeling of hate, is their first en- 
counter — their recoil — their return to the conflict, in foam and 
roar, and commotion, until exhaustion terminates the strife, and 
they at length repose together in the broad valleys of the Con- 
garee below. 

The turbulence of the scene alone interested the dark-bosomed 
spectator whose fortunes we contemplate. He saw neither its sub- 
lime nor its gentle features — its fair groves — its sweet islands of 
rock and tufted vegetation, upon which the warring waters, as if 
mutually struggling to do honor to their benevolent interposition, 
fling ever their flashing, and transparent wreaths of whitish foam 
His moody thought was busy in likening the prospect to that 
turbulence, the result of wild purposes and wicked desires, which 
filled his own bosom. A thousand impediments, like the numer 
ous rocks and islands that rose to obstruct the passage of the 
streams which he surveyed, lay in his course, baffling Ids aim, 
driving him from his path, resisting his desires, and scattering 
inefficiently all his powers. Even as the waters which he be- 
held, complaining in the fruitless conflict with the rude masses 
from which they momently recoiled, so did he, unconsciously, 
break into speech, as the difficulties in his own future progress 
grew more and more obvious to his reflections. 

“There must soon be an end to this. That old fool was 
right. I should be a fool to wait to see it. Once, twice, thrice- 
already, have I escaped, when death seemed certain. Let me 
not provoke Fortune — let me not task her too far. It will be 


GLIMPSES OF PASSION AND ITS FRUITS. 


166 


impossible to baffle these bloodhounds much longer ! Tlieii 
scent is too keen, their numbers too great, and the spoil too en- 
couraging. Besides, I have done enough. I have proved my 
loyalty. Loyalty imWd ! — a profitable pretext! — and thcr* 
will be no difficulty now in convincing Rawdon that I ought, not 
to be the last to linger here in waiting for the end. * That end 
— what shall it be? — A hard fight — a bloody field — a sharp 
pain and quiet! Quiet! — that were something, too, which 
might almost reconcile one to linger. Could I be secure of that, 
at the risk of a small pain only ; but it may be worse. Captiv- 
ity were something worse than death. In their hands, alive, and 
no Spanish tortures would equal mine. No ! no ! I must not en- 
counter that danger. I must keep in reserve one weapon at 
least, consecrated to the one purpose. This — this! must secure 
me against captivity !” 

He drew from his bosom, as he spoke these words, a small 
poniard of curious manufacture, which he contemplated with an 
eye of deliberate study ; as if the exquisite Moorish workman- 
ship of the handle, and the rich and variegated enamel of the 
blade, served to promote the train of gloomy speculation into 
which he had fallen. A rustling of the leaves — the slight step 
of a foot immediately behind him — caused him to start to his 
feet; — but he resumed his place with an air of vexation, as he 
beheld in the intruder, the person of the boy whom we have 
seen once before in close attendance upon him. 

“How now!” he exclaimed impatiently; “can I have no 
moment to myself — why will you thus persist in following 
me?” 

“I have no one else to follow,” was the meek reply — tie 
tones falling, as it were, in echo from a weak and withered 
heart. 

“I have no one else to follow, and — and — ” 

The lips faltered into silence. 

“ Speak out — and what ? — ” 

“ You once said to me that I should go with none but you — 
oh, Edward Conway, spurn me not — drive me not away with 
those harsh looks and cruel accents; — let me linger beside you 
— though, if you please it, still out of your sight ; for I am des- 


166 


THE SCOUT. 


date — oh! so uesoiate, when you leave me! — you, to whoin 
alone, of all the world, I may have some right to look for pro- 
tection and for life.” 

The sex of the speaker stood revealed — in the heaving breast 
— the wo-begone countenance— - the heart-broken despondency 
of look and gesture — the tear-swollen and down-looking eye 
She threw herself before him as she spoke, her face buried in 
her hands and prone upon the ground. Her sobs succeeded her 
speech, and in fact silenced it. 

“ No more of this, Mary Clarkson, you disturb and vex me. 
Rise. I have seen, for some days past, that you had some new 
tribulation — some new burden of wo to deliver; — out with it 
now — say what you have to say ; — and, look you, no winnings ! 
Life is too seriously full of real evils, dangers, and difficulties, to 
suffer me to bear with these imaginary afflictions.” 

“ Oh, God, Edward Conway, it is not imaginary with me. It 
is real — it is to be seen — to be felt. I am dying with it. It 
is in my pale cheek — my burning brain, in which there is a 
constant fever. Oh, look not upon me thus — thus angrily — 
for, in truth I am dying. I feel it ! I know that I can not live 
very long ; — and yet, I am so afraid to die. It is this fear, Ed- 
ward Conway, that makes me intrude upon you now.” 

“ And what shall I do, and what shall I say to lessen your 
fears of death] And why should I do it — why, yet more, 
should you desire it ? Death is, or ought to be, a very good 
thing for one who professes to be so very miserable in life as 
yourself. You heard me as you approached? — if you did, you 
must have heard my resolution to seek death, from my own 
weapon, under certain circumstances. Now, it is my notion that 
whenever life becomes troublesome, sooner than grumble at it 
hourly, I should make use of some small instrument like this. 
A finger prick only — no greater pain — will suffice, and put an 
end to life and pain in the same instant.” 

“Would it could ! would it could !” exclaimed the unfortunate 
victim of that perfidy which now laughed her miseries to scorn. 

“ Why, so it can ! Do you doubt ? I tell you, that there is 

no more pain, Mary, in driving this dagger into vour heart 

into its most tender and vital places — than there would be. 


GLIMPSES OP PASSION AND ITS FRUITS. 167 

burying it in your finger. Death will follow, and there’s the 
end of ii.” 

“ Not the end, not the end — if it were, Edward Conway, how 
gladly would I implore from your hand the blessing of that 
lasting peace which would follow from its blow. It is the here- 
after — the awful hereafter — which I fear to meet.” 

“ Pshaw ! a whip of the hangman — a bugbear of the priests, 
for cowards and women ! I’ll warrant you, if you are willing to 
try the experiment, perfect security from all pain hereafter!” 

And the heartless wretch extended toward her the hand 
which contained the glittering weapon. She shuddered and 
turned away — giving him, as she did £>, such a look as, even 
he, callous as he was, shrunk to behold. A glance of reproach, 
more keen, deep, and touching, than any word of complaint 
which her lips had ever ventured to utter. 

“ Alas ! Edward Conway, has it really come to this ! To you 
1 have yielded everything — virtue, peace of mind — the love of 
father, and of mother, and of friends — all that’s most dear — all 
that the heart deems most desirable — and you offer me, in re- 
turn, for these — death, death! — the sharp, sudden poniard — 
the cold, cold grave ! If you offer it, Edward Conway — strike ! 

— the death is welcome! Even the fear, of it is forgotten. 
Strike, set me free ; — 1 will vex you no longer with my pres- 
ence.” 

“ Why, what a peevish fool you are, Mary Clarkson ! though, 
to be sure, you are not very different from the rest. There’s 
no pleasing any of you, do as we may. You first come to me to 
clamor about your distaste of life, and by your perpetual grum- 
blings you seek to make it as distasteful to me as to yourself. 
Well, I tell you — this is my remedy — this sudden, sharp dagger ! 
Whenever I shall come to regard life as a thing of so much mis- 
ery as you do, I shall end it ; and I also add, in the benevolence 
of my heart — ‘here is my medicament — I share it with you!’ 

— and lo ! what an uproar — what a howling. Look you, Mary, 
you must trouble me no longer in this manner. I am, just now, 
in the worst possible mood to bear with the best friend under the 
sun.” 

“ Oh, Edward Conway, mid this too ! — this, after your prom 


168 


THE SCOUT. 


ise ! Do you remember your promise to me, by the poplar 
spring, that hour of my sliame? — that awful hour ! Ob ! what 
was that promise, Edward Conway ? Speak, Edward Conway ! 
Repeat that promise, and confess I was not all guilty. No, no ! 
i was only all credulous! You beguiled me with a promise — 
with an oath — a solemn oath before Heaven — did you not? — 
that I should be your wife. Till then, at least, I was not 
guilty !” 

“Did I really make such a promise to you — eh ?” he asked 
with a scornful affectation of indifference. 

“ Surely, you will not deny that you did?” she exclaimed, 
with an earnestness w^ch was full of amazement. 

“ Well, I scarcely remember. But it matters not much, Mary 
Clarkson. You were a fool for believing. How could you sup- 
pose that I would marry you? Ha! Is it so customary foi 
pride and poverty to unite on the Congaree that you should be- 
lieve ? Is it customary for the eldest son of one of the wealthi- 
est families to wed with the child of one of the poorest ? Why, 
you should have known by the promise itself that I was amu- 
sing myself with your credulity — that my only object was to 
beguile you — to win you on my own terms — not to wear you! 
I simply stooped .for conquest, Mary Clarkson, and you were 
willing to believe any lie for the same object. It was your 
vanity that beguiled you, Mary Clarkson, and not my words. 
You wished to be a fine lady, and you are ” 

“ Oh, do not stop. Speak it all out. Give to my folly and 
my sin their true name. I can bear to hear it now without 
shrinking, for my own thoughts have already spoken to my 
heart the foul and fearful truth. I am, indeed, loathsome to 
myself, and would not care to live but that I fear to die. ’Tis 
not the love of life that makes me turn in fear from the dagger 
which you offer. This, Edward Morton — ’tis this which brings 
me to you now. I do not seek you for guidance or for counsel 
— no, no! — no such folly moves me now. I come to you for 
protection — for safety — for security from sudden death — from 
the judge — from the avenger ! He is pursuing us — I have seen 
him !” — -and, as she spoke these almost incoherent words, her 
tsye looked wildly among the thick woods around, with u glauce 


GLIMPSES OF PASSION AND ITS FRUITS. 16,4 

lull of apprehension, as if the danger she spoke of was in reality 
at hand. Surprise was clearly expressed in the features of her 
callous paramour. 

“ He ! Of whom speak you, child ? Who is it you fear V s — 
and liis glance followed the wild direction of her eyes. 

<f My father ! — Jacob Clarkson ! He is in search of me — of 
you ! And oh ! Edward Conway, I know him so well, that 1 
tell you it will not he your high connections and aristocratic 
birth that will save you on the •Congaree from a poor man’s 
rifle, though these may make it a trifling thing for you to ruin a 
poor man’s child. He is even now in search of us — I have seen 
him ! I have seen the object of his whole soul in his eye, as J 
have seen it a hundred times before. He will kill you — he will 
kill us both, Edward Conway, but he will have revenge !”• 

" Pshaw, girl ! You are very foolish. How can your father 
find us out ? How approach us ? The thought is folly. As an 
individual he can only approach us by coming into the line of 
our sentinels ; “these disarm him, and he then might look upon 
us, in each other’s arms, without being able to do us any injury .” 

“ Do not speak so, Edward, for God’s sake ! — in each other’' 
arms no longer — no more!” — and a sort of shivering horroi 
passed over her frame as she spoke these words. 

“ As you please l” muttered the outlaw, with an air and smile 
of scornful indifference. The girl proceeded — 

“ But, even without weapons, the sight of my father — the 
look of his eyes upon mine — would kill me — would be worse 
than any sort of death ! Oh, God ! let me never see him more ! 
Let him never see me — the child that has lost him, lost herself, 
and is bringing his gray hairs in sorrow to the grave.” 

“ Mary Clarkson, who do you think to cheat with all this hy- 
pocrisy of sentiment 1 Don’t I know that all those fine words 
and phrases are picked out of books. This talk is too customary 
to be true.” 

“ They may be ! — they were books, Edward Conway, which 
you brought me, and which I loved to read for your sake. 
41as1 I did not follow their lessons.” 

“ Enough of this stuff, and now to the common sense of this 
business. You have seen your father, you say; where?” 


170 


THE SCOUT. 


“ On the Wateree ; the day before you came back from your 
brother in the swamp !” 

“Brother me no brothers !” exclaimed the outlaw fiercely ; 
“and look you, girl, have I not told you a thousand times that 
I wish not fo be called Conway. Call me Morton, Cunningham, 
John Stuart, or the devil — or any of the hundred names by 
which my enemies distinguish me and denominate my deeds ; 
but call me not by the name of Conway. I, too, have some- 
thing filial in my nature ; and* if you wish not to see the father 
you have offended, perhaps it is for the same reason that I would 
not hear the name of mine. Let that dutiful reason content you 
— it may be that I have others; but these we will forbear for 
the present. What of Jacob Clarkson, when you saw him ? 
Where was he? — how employed? — and where were you , and 
who with you ?” 

“ Oh, God ! I was fearfully nigh to him, and he saw me ! — 
He fixed his keen, cold, deathly eye upon me, and I thought I 
should have sunk under it. I thought he knew me ; but how 
could he in such a guise as this, and looking, as I do, pale, with- 
ered, and broken down with sin and suffering.” 

“ Pshaw ! Where was all this ?” 

“ At Isaac’s tavern. There was none there beside myself and 
Isaac. He came in and asked for a calabash of water, fie 
would drink nothing, though Muggs kindly offered him, but he 
would not. He looked at me only for an instant ; but it seemed 
to me, in that instant, that he looked through and through my 
soul. He said nothing to me, and hardly anything to Isaac— 
though he asked him several questions ; and when he drank the 
water, and rested for a little while, he went away. But, while 
he stayed, I thought I should have died. I could have buried 
myself in the earth to escape his sight ; and yet how I longed 
to throw myself at his feet, and beg for mercy ! Could I have 
done that, I think I should have been happy. I should have 
been willing then to die. But I dared not. He hadn’t a human 
look — he didn’t seem to feel ; — and I feared that he might kill 
me without hearkening to my prayer.” 

“ Muggs should have told me of this,” said the other, musingly. 


GLIMPSES OF PASSION AND ITS FRUITS. 17.1 

“ He must have forgot it, on account of tlie uproar and great 
confusion afterward.” 

“ That is no good reason for a va*o 1 fellow like him. I must 
see into it. It was a strange omission.” 

“ But what will you do, Edward — where shall we fly?” 

“Fly! where should we fly — and why? Because of your 
father ? Have I not already told you that he can not approach 
us to do harm ; and, as for discovering us, have you not seen 
that he looked upon his own child without knowing her; and 
I’m sure he can never recollect me as the man who once helped 
him to provide for the only undutiful child he had.” 

“ Spare me ! Be not so cruel in your words, Edward, for, of 
a truth, though I may escape the vengeance of my father, I feel 
certain that I have not long — not very long — to live.” 

“ Nor I, Mary , so, while life lasts, let us be up and doing !” 
was the cold-blooded reply, as, starting to his feet, as if with the 
desire to avoid further conference on an annoying subject, he 
prepared to leave the spot where it had taken place. 

Her lips moved, but she spoke not. Her hands were clasped, 
but the entreaty which they expressed was lost equally upon 
his eyes and heart ; and if she meant to pray to him for a fur- 
ther hearing, her desire was unexpressed in any stronger form. 
By him it remained unnoticed. Was it unnoticed by the over- 
looking and observant God! — for, to him, when the other had 
gone from sight and hearing, were her prayers then offered, 
v. itb, seemingly, all the sincerity of a broken and a contrite 
qnrit. 


172 


THE SCOUT. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

> GLIMPSE OF BRIER PARK: THE OATH OF THE BLACK RIDERS. 

By evening of the same clay, the scouts made their appear- 
ance, and their reports were such as to determine the captain 
of the Black Riders to cross the Congaree and pursue his ob- 
jects, whatever they might be, along its southern banks. Suf- 
ficient time for rest had been allotted to his troop. He believed 
they had employed it as assigned ; little dreaming how busy 
some of them had been, in the concoction of schemes, which, if 
in character not unlike his own, were scarcely such as were 
congenial with his authority or his desires. But these are mat- 
ters for the future. 

Though resolved on crossing the river, yet, as the chosen 
erry lay several miles below, it became necessary to sound to 
norse ; and, about dusk, the troop was again put in motion, and 
continued on their route till midnight. 

They had compassed but a moderate distance in this space of 
time, moving as they did with great precaution ; slowly of course, 
as was necessary while traversing a country supposed to be in 
the full possession of an enemy, and over roads, which, in those 
days, were neither very distinct, nor fairly open, nor in the best 
condition. They reached the ferry, but halted for the remainder 
of the night without making any effort to cross. 

At the dawn of day, Mary Clarkson, still seemingly a boy, 
was one of the first, stealing along the bank of the river, to 
remark the exquisite beauty of the prospect which on every side 
opened upon her eye. The encampment of the Black Riders 
had been made along the river bluff, but sufficiently removed 
from its edge to yield the requisite degree of woodland shelter. 
The spot chosen for the purpose was a ridge unusually elevated 
for that portion of the stream, which is commonly skirted by an 
alluvial bottom of the richest swamp undergrowth. This, on 


A GLIMPSE OF BRIER PARK. 


m 


either hand, lay below, while the river, winding upon its way in 
the foreground, was as meek and placid as if it never knew 
obstacle or interruption. 

Yet, but a few miles above, how constant had been its strife 
with the rocks — liow unceasing its warring clamors. But a few 
of these obstructions, and these were obstructions in appearance 
only, occurred immediately at the point before us ; and these, 
borne down by the violence of the conflict carried on above, 
might seem rather the trophies of its own triumph, which the 
river brought away with it in its downward progress — serving 
rather to overcome the monotony of its surface, and increase the 
picturesque of its prospect, than as offering any new obstacle, 
or as provoking to any farther strife. Its waters broke with a 
gentle violence on their rugged tops, and passed over and around 
them with a sligjit murmur, which was quite as clearly a mur- 
mur of merriment as one of annoyance. 

Around, the foliage grew still in primitive simplicity. There, 
the long-leafed pine, itself the evidence of a forest undishonored 
by the axe, reared its lofty brow, soaring and stooping, a giant 
surveying his domain. About him, not inferior in pride and ma- 
jesty, though perhaps inferior in height, were a numerous groAvth 
of oaks, of all the varieties common to the region ; — tributary, 
as beauty still must ever be to strength, were the rich and vari- 
ous hues of the bay, the poplar, the dogwood, and the red bud 
of the sassafras — all growing and blooming in a profligate luxu- 
riance, unappreciated and unemployed, as if the tastes of the 
Deity, quite as active as his benevolence, found their own suf- 
iicient exercise in the contemplation of such a treasure, though 
man himself were never to be created for its future enjoyment. 

But beyond lay a prospect in which art, though co-operating witn 
nature to the same end, had proved herself a dangerous rival. 
Stretching across the stream, the eye took in, at a glance, tli6 terri- 
tory of one of those proud baronial privileges of Carolina — the seat 
of one of her short-lived nobility — broad fields, smooth-shaven 
lawns, green meadows melting away into the embrace of the brown 
woods — fair gardens — moss-covered and solemn groves; and in 
the midst of all, and over all — standing upon the crown of a gently 
sloping hill, one of those stern, strong, frowning fabrics of the olden 


174 


THE SCOUT. 


time, which our ancestors devised to answer the threefold pur- 
poses of the dwelling, the chapel, and the castle for defence. 

There, when the courage of the frontier-men first broke 
ground, and took possession, among the wild and warlike hunt- 
ers of the Santee, the Congaree, and the Saluda, did the gallant 
General Middleton plant his towers, amidst a region of great 
perils, but of great natural beauty. With fearless soul, he united 
an exquisite taste, and for its indulgence he was not unwilling 
to encounter the perils of the remote wilderness to which he 
went. Perhaps, too, the picturesque of the scenery was height- 
ened to his mind by the dangers which were supposed to envi 
ron it ; and the forest whose frowning shades discouraged most 
others, did not lose any of its attractions in his sight, because it 
sometimes tasked him to defend his possessions by the strong 
arm and the ready weapon. The bear disputed with him the 
possession of the honey -tree ; and the red man, starting up, at 
evening, from the thicket, not unfrequently roused him with his 
fearful halloo, to betake himself to those defences, which made 
his habitation a fortress no less than a dwelling. 

But these, Avhicli are difficulties to the slothful, and terrors to 
the timid, gave a zest to adventure, which sweetens enterprise 
in the estimation of the brave ; and it did not lessen the value 
of Brier Park to its first proprietor because he was sometimes 
driven to stand a siege from the red men of the Congaree. 

But the red men disappeared, and with them the daring ad- 
venturer who planted his stakes, among the first, in the bosom 
of their wild possessions. He, too, followed them at the ap- 
pointed season ; and his proud old domains fell into the hands 
of gentler proprietors. Under the countenance of her venerable 
grandmother, Flora Middleton — truly a rose in the wilderness 
— blossomed almost alone ; at a time when the region in which 
the barony stood, was covered with worse savages than even the 
Congarees had been in the days of their greatest license. 

But the besom of war — which swept the country as with 
flame and sword — had paused in its ravages at this venerated 
threshold. With whig and tory alike, the name of old General 
Middleton, the patriarch of the Congaree country, was held 
equally sacred; — and the lovely granddaughter who inherited 


A GLIMPSE OP bltlLK PARK. 


175 


bic wealth, though celebrated equally as a belle and a rebel, 
was suffered to hold her estates and opinions without paying 
rhose heavy penalties which, in those days, the possession of 
either was very likely to incur. 

Some trifling exceptions to this general condition of indul- 
gence might occasionally take place. Sometimes a marauding 
party trespassed upon the hen-roost, or made a bolder foray into 
rhe cattle-yard and storehouses ; but these petty depredations 
sunk out of sight in comparison with the general state of inse- 
curity and robbery which prevailed everywhere else. 

The more serious annoyances to which the inhabitants of 
Brier Park were subject, arose from the involuntary hospitality 
which they were compelled to exercise toward the enemies of 
tlieir country. Flora Middleton had been forced to receive with 
courtesy the “ amiable” Cornwallis, and the brutal Ferguson ; 
and to listen with complacency to words of softened courtesy 
and compliment from lips which had just before commanded 
to the halter a score of her countrymen, innocent of all offence, 
except that of defending, with the spirit of manhood and filial 
love, the soil which gave them birth. The equally sanguinary 
and even more stern Pawdon — the savage Tarleton, and the 
fierce and malignant Cunningham, had also been her uninvited 
guests, to whom she had done the honors of the house with the 
grace and spirit natural to her name and education, but never at 
the expense of her patriotism. 

“My fair foe, Flora,” was the phrase with which — with un- 
accustomed urbanity of temper, Lord Cornwallis was wont to 
acknowledge, but never to resent, in any other way — the bold- 
ness of her spoken sentiments. These she declared with equal 
modesty and firmness, whenever their expression became neces- 
sary ; and, keen as might be her sarcasm, it bore with it its own 
antidote, in the quiet, subdued, ladylike tone in which it was ut- 
tered, and the courteous manner which accompanied it. Grace 
and beauty may violate many laws with impunity, and praise- 
not punishment, will still follow the offender. 

Buch was the happy fortune of Flora Middleton — one of those 
youthful beauties of Carolina, whose wit, whose sentiment, pride 
and patriotism, acknowledged equally bv friend and foe, exer- 


176 


THE SCOUT. 


cised a wondrous influence over the events ol the war, which is 
yet to he put on record in a becoming manner. 

The poor outcast, Mary Clarkson— a beauty, also, at one 
time, i her rustic sphere, and one whose sensibilities bad been 
unhappily heightened by the very arts employed by her sedu- 
cer to effect her ruin — gazed, with a mournful sentiment of sat- 
isfaction, at the sweet and picturesque beauty of the scene. Al- 
ready was she beginning to lose herself in that dreamy languor 
of thought which hope itself suggests to the unhappy as a 
means to escape from wo, when she found her reckless betrayer 
suddenly standing by her side. 

“ Ha, Mary, you are on the look-out, I see— you have a 
taste, I know. What think you of the plantations opposite 1 
See how beautifully the lawn slopes up from the river to the 
foot of the old castle, a glimpse of whose gloomy, frowning vis- 
age, meets your eye through that noble grove of water oakj 
that link their arms across the passage and conceal two thirds — 
no less — of the huge fabric to which they lead. There now, to 
the right, what a splendid field of corn — what an ocean of green 
leaves. On the left do you see a clump of oaks and sycamores 
— there, to itself, away — a close, dense clump, on a little hil- 
lock, itself a sort of emerald in the clearing around it. There 
stands the vault — the tomb of the Middleton family. Old Mid- 
dleton himself sleeps there, if he can be said to sleep at all ; for 
they tell strange stories of his nightly rambles after wolves and 
copper-skins. You may see a small gray spot, like a chink of 
light, peeping out of the grove — that is the tomb. It is a huge, 
square apartment — I have been in it mor* than once — partly 
beneath and partly above the ground. It has hid many more 
living than it will ever hold dead men. I owe it thanks for 
more than one concealment myself.” 

“ You V' 

“ Yes ! I have had a very comfortable night’s rest in it, all 
things considered ; and the probability is not small that we shall 
take our sleep in it to-night. How like you the prospect V ’ 

The girl shuddered. He did not care for any other answer, 
but proceeded. 

“In that old cage of Middleton there is a bird of sweetest 


A GLIMPSE OF BRIER PARK. 177 

song, whom I would set free. Do you guess wliat 1 mean, 
Mary ?” 

The girl confessed her ignorance. 

“ You are dull, Mary, but you shall grow wiser before long 
Enough for the present. We must set the troop in motion. A 
short mile below and we find our crossing place, and then — 
hark you, Mary, you must keep a good look-out to-night. If 
there was mischief yesterday, it is not yet cured. There is more 
to-day. 1 shall expect you to watch to-night, while I ‘prey .” 

He chuckled at the passing attempt at a sort of wit, in which, 
to do him justice, he did not often indulge, and "the point of 
which his companion did not perceive; then continued — 

“Perhaps it should be ‘prowl’ rather than watch. Though, 
to prowl well requires the best of watching. You must do both. 
You prowl while I prey — do you understand?” 

He had given a new form to his phrase, by which he made 
his hitmor obvious ; and, satisfied with this, he proceeded more 
seriously — .. 

“ Give up your dumps, girl. It will not be the woise for 
you that things turn out to please me. These rascals must 
be watched, and I can now trust none to watch them but your- 
self.” 

At this confession, her reproachful eyes were turned full and 
keenly upon him. He had betrayed the trust of the only being 
in whom he could place his own. What a commentary on his 
crime, on his cruel indifference to the victim if it ! He saw in 
her eyes the meaning which her lips did not declare. 

“ Yes, it is even so,” he said ; “ and women were friade for 
this, and they must expect it. Born to be dependants, it is ^ 
enough that we employ you ; and*if your expectations Were 
fewer and humbler, your chance for happiness would be far 
greater. Content yourself now with the conviction that you 
have a share in my favor, and all will go well with you. The 
regards of a man are not to be contracted to the frail and un- 
satisfying compass of one girl’s heart ; unless, indeed, as you all 
seem to fancy, that love is the sole business of a long life. Love 
is very well for boys and girls, but it furnishes neither the food 
nor the exercise for manhood. If you expect it, you live in 


178 


THE SCOUT. 


vain. Your food must bo the memories of your former luxuries 
Let it satisfy you, Mary, that I loved you once.” 

“Never, Edward — you never loved me; not even when my 
confidence in your love lost me the love of all other persons, 
This knowledge I have learned by knowing how I have mysclt 
loved, and by comparing my feelings with the signs of love in 
you. In learning to know how little I have been loved, I made 
the discovery of your utter incapacity to love.” 

“And why, pray you!” he demanded, with some pique; but 
the girl did not answer. He saw her reluctance, and framed 
another question. 

“And why, then, after this discovery, do you still love me, 
and cling to me, and complain of me ?” 

“ Alas ! I know not why I love you. That, indeed, is beyond 
me to learn. I have sought to know — I have tried to think — 
I have asked, but in vain, of my own mind and heart I cling 
to you because I can cling nowhere else ; and you have yourself 
'said that a woman is a dependant — she must cling somewhere ! 
The vine clings to the tree though it knows that all its heart is 
rotten. As for complaint, God knows I do not come to make it 
— I do not wish, but I can not help it. I weep and moan from 
weakness only, I believe, and I shall soon be done moaning.” 

“ Enough — I see which Avay you tend now. You are foolish, 
Mary Clarkson, and war with your own peace. Can you never 
be reconciled to what is inevitable — what you can no longer 
avoid? Make the best of your condition — what is done can't 
be amended ; and the sooner you show me that you can yield 
yourself to your fate with some grace, the more certain and soon 
0 will be the grace bestowed in turn. You are useful to me, Mary ; 
and as women are useful to men — grown men, mark me — so do 
they value them. When I say ’useful,’ remember the word is 
a comprehensive one. You may be useful in love, in the pro- 
motion of fortune, revenge, ambition, hope, enterprise — a thou- 
sand things and objects, in which exercise will elevate equally 
y r our character and condition. Enough, now.. You must show 
your usefulness to-night. I go on a business of peril, and I 
must go alone. But I will take you with me a part of the way, 
and out of sight o* the encampment. To the encampment you 


A GLIMPSE OP BRIER PARK. 


179 


must, return, however, and with such precaution as to keep un- 
seen. I need not counsel you any further — your talents clearly 
lie that way. Love is a sorry business — a sort of sickness — 
perhaps the natural complaint of overgrown babies of both sexes, 
who should be dosed with caudle and put to bed as soon after 
«s possible. Do you hear, child ? Do you understand V* 

Thus substantially ended this conference — the singular terms 
of which, and the relation between the parties, can only be un- 
derstood by remembering that sad condition of dependence in 
which the unhappy girl stood to her betrayer. She was hope- 
less of any change of fortune — she knew not where to turn — 
she now had no other objects to which she might presume to 
cling. She remembered the humbler love of John Bannister 
with a sigh — the roof and the affections of her father with a 
thrill, which carried a cold horror through all her veins. A 
natural instinct turned her to the only one upon whom she had 
any claim — a claim still indisputable, though it might be scorned 
or denied by him ; and, without being satisfied of the truth of 
his arguments, she was willing, as he required, to be useful, that 
she might not be forgotten. 

While the troop was preparing to cross the river, it was joined, 
to the surprise of everybody and the chagrin of its commander, 
by the refractory lieutenant, Stockton. 

lie related the events which occurred to him somewhat dif- 
ferently from the truth. According to his version of the story, 
i he guard to whom he had been intrusted was attacked by a 
superior force, beaten, and probably slain — he himself season- 
al) ly escaping to tell the story. It was fancied by himself and 
Inends that his narrow escape and voluntary return to liis duty 
would lessen his offence in the eye of the chief, and probably 
relieve him from all the consequences threatened in his recent 
arrest. 

But the latter was too jealous of the disaffection prevailing 
among his men, and too confident in the beneficial influence of 
sternness among inferiors, to relax the measure of a hair in the 
exercise of his authority. He at once committed the traitor a 
close prisoner, to the care of two of his most trusty adherents ; 
and resolutely rejected the applications offered in his behalf bv 


180 


THE SCOUT. 


some of the temporizers — a class of persons of whom the Black 
Riders, like every other human community, had a fair propor- 
tion. 

The river was crossed a few miles below the Middleton Bar- 
or.y. A deep thicket in the forest, and on the edge of the river 
swamp, was chosen for their bivouac; and there, closely con- 
cealed from casual observation, the chief of the Black Riders, 
with his dark banditti, awaited till the approach of night, in a 
condition of becoming quiet. He then 'prepared to go forth, 
alone, on his expedition to the barony ; and it was with some 
surprise, though without suspicion of the cause, that Mary Clark- 
son perceived, on hi& setting out, that he had discarded all his 
customary disguises, and had really been paying some little un- 
usual attention to the arts of the toilet. The black and savage 
beard and whiskers, as worn by the troopers generally — a 
massive specimen of which had fallen into the hands of Supple 
Jack on a previous occasion — had disappeared from his face; 
his sable uniform had given place to a well-fitting suit of becom- 
ing blue ; and, of the costume of the troop, nothing remained 
but the dark belt which encircled his waist. 

Mary Clarkson was not naturally a suspicious person, nor of a 
jealous temper ; and the first observation which noticed these 
changes occasioned not even a surmise in relation to their ob- 
ject. She obeyed his intimation to follow him as he prepared 
to take his departure ; and, availing herself of the momentary 
diversion of such of the band as were about her at the moment, 
she stole away and joined him at a little distance from the camp, 
where she received his instructions as to the game which he 
required her to play. 

The quiet in which Morton had left his followers did not long 
continue after his departure. The insubordinates availed them- 
selves of his absence to try their strength - in a bolder measure 
than they had before attempted ; and a body of them, rising 
tumultuously, rushed upon the guard to whom Stockton had 
been given in charge, and, overawing all opposition by their 
superior numbers, forcibly rescued him from his bonds. 

Ensign Darcy was the leader of this party. He had found it 
no difficulty to unite them in a measure which they boldly a» 


A GLIMPSE OF BRIER PARK. 


181 


snmed to bo an act of justice, levelled at a species of tyranny 
to which they ought never to submit. Disaffection had spread 
much further among his troop than Edward Morton imagined. 
Disasters had made them forgetful of ancient ties, as well as 
previous successes. Recently, their spoils had been few and 
inconsiderable, their toils constant and severe, and their dangers 
great. This state of things inclined them all, in a greater or 
less degree, to be dissatisfied ; and nothing is so easy to vulgar 
minds, as to ascribe to the power which governs, all the evils 
which afflict them. 

The leaders of the meeting availed themselves of this natural 
tendency with considerable art. The more ignorant & nd unthink- 
ing were taught to believe that their chief had mismanaged in a 
dozen instances, where a different course of conduct would have 
burdened them with spoils. He had operated on the Wateree 
and Santee, when the Congaree and the Saluda offered the best 
field for the exercise of their peculiar practices. 

That “ frail masquer,” to whom the cold-blooded Morton had 
given in charge the whole espionage which he now kept upon 
his troop, came upon their place of secret consultation at a mo- 
ment auspicious enough for the objects of her watch. They had 
assembled — that is, such of the band (and this involved a ma- 
jority) as were disposed to rebel against their present leader — 
in a little green dell, beside a rivulet which passed from the 
highlands of the forest into the swamp. Here they had kindled 
a small fire, enough -to give light to their deliberations; had 
lighted their pipes, and, from their canteens, were seasoning 
their deliberations with the requisite degree and kind of spirit. 
With that carelessness of all precautions which is apt to follow 
any decisive departure from the usual restraints of authority, 
they had neglected to place sentries around their place of con- 
ference, who might report the approach of any hostile footstep ; 
or, if these had been placed at the beginning, they had been 
beguiled by the temptations of the debate and the drink to leave 
their stations, and take their seats along with their comrades. 

Mary Clarkson was thus enabled to steal within easy hearing 
of all their deliberations. Stockton, with exemplary forbearance 
and a res* rve that was meant to be dignified, did not take much 


182 


THE SCOUT 


pari, in the proceedings. Ensign Darcy, however, was faithful 
to his old professions, and was the principal speaker. He it was 
who could best declare what, in particular, had been the omis- 
sions of the chief ; and by what mistakes he had led the troop 
from point to point, giving them no rest, little food, and haras- 
sing them with constant dangers and alarms. 

The extent of his information surprised the faithful listener, 
and informed her also of some matters which she certainly did 
vot expect to hear. 

Darcy was supported chiefly by the huge fellow already 
known by the name of Barton — the same person who had led 
the insubordinates in Muggs’ cabin, when Edward Morton, at 
the last, moment, sprang up to the rescue of his kinsman. This 
ruffian, whose violence then had offered opposition to his leader, 
and could only be suppressed by the show of an equal violence 
on the part of the latter, had never been entirely satisfied with 
himself since that occasion. He was one of those humble- 
minded persons of whom the world is so full, who are always 
asking what their neighbors think of them ; and being a sort of 
braggart and bully, he was annoyed by a consciousness of hav- 
ing lost some portion of the esteem of his comrades by the 
comparatively easy submission which he then rendered to his 
leader. This idea haunted him, and he burned for some oppor- 
tunity to restore himself in their wonted regards. Darcy dis- 
covered this, and worked upon the fool’s frailty to such a 
degree, that he was persuaded to take the lead in the work of 
mutiny, and to address his specious arguments to those doubtful 
persons of the gang whom the fox-like properties of the ensign 
would never have suffered him directly to approach. Their 
modes of convincing the rest were easy enough, since their ar- 
guments were plausible, if not true, and there was some founda- 
tion fo*- many of the objections urged against their present com- 
mander. 

“ Here, for example,” said Darcy ; “ here he comes to play 
the lover at Middleton place. He dodges about the young 
woman when it suits him ; and either we follow him here, and 
hang about to keep the rebels from his skirts, or he leaves us 
where we neither hear nor see anything of him for weeks. 


THE OATH OF THE BLaCK R.DEKP 183 

Meanwhile, we can do nothing — we dare not move without 
him ; and if we do any creditable thing, what’s the consequence ? 
Lieutenant Stockton there can tell you. He’s knocked over 
like a bullock, and arrested — is attacked by the rebels, makes 
a narrow escape, comes back like a good soldier, and is put 
under arrest again, as if no punishment was enough for showing 
the spirit of a man.” 

“Ah, yes, that wa’n’t right of the captain;” said one of the 
fellows, with a conclusive shake of the head. 

“ Yes, and all that jist after the lieutenant had been busy for 
five days, through storm and rain, looking after him only,” was 
the addition of another. 

“ It’s a God’s truth, for sartin, the captain’s a mighty changed 
man now-a-days,” said a third. 

“ He ain’t the same person, that’s a el’ar,” Avas the conviction 
of a fourth ; and so on through the tale. 

“ And avIio’s going to stand it V* cried the felloAv Barton, in a 
voice of thunder, shivering the pipe in his hand by a stroke 
upon the earth that startled more than one of the doubtful. 

“ I’ll tell you what, men — there’s no use to beat about the 
bush Avben the thing can be made plain to every men’s onder- 
standing. Here it is. We’re in a mighty bad fix at present, 
any Iioav ; and the chance is a great deal worse, so long as Ave 
stand here. Here* the whigs are quite too thick for us to deal 
with. It’s either, we must go up to the mountains or get down 
toward the seaboard. I’m told there’s good picking any Avay. 
But here Ave’ve mighty nigh cleaned out the crib; — there’s 
precious little left. What’s to keep us here, I can’t see ; but 
it’s easy to see what keeps Captain Morton here. He’s after 
this gal of Middleton’s ; and he’ll stay, and peep, and dodge, 
and come and go, until he gits his oavh neck in the halter, and 
may-be our’n too. Now, if you’re of my mind, Ave’ll leave him 
to his gal and all he can get by her, and take horse this very 
night, and find our way along the Saludah, up to Ninety-Six. 
That’s my notion; and, as a beginning, I’m Avilling to say, for 
the first, let Harry Stockton bfc our captain from the jump.” 

“ Softly, softly, Barton,” said the more Avily Darcy ; “ that 
can hardly be, unless you mean to put the garrison of Ninety- 


184 


THE SCOUT. 


Six at defiance also. You’ll find it no easy matter to show a 
king's commission for the lieutenant; and it’ll be something 
worse if Ned Morton faces you just at the moment when Bal- 
four, or Rawdon, or Stuart, or Cruger, has you under examina- 
tion. No, no ! There’s no way of doing the thing, unless you 
can show them that Ned Morton’s a dead man or a traitor. Now, 
then, which shall it he ?” 

“Both !” roared Barton. “ I’m for the dead man first. We 
can go in a body and see for ourselves that he’s done up for this 
world, and we can go in the same body to Cruger at Ninety- 
Six and show that we want a captain, and can’t find a better 
man than Harry Stockton.” 

“ But he ain’t dead,” said one of the more simple of the 
tribe. 

“ Who says he ain’t?” growled the ruffian Barton — “when 
I say he is? He’s dead — dead as a door nail; and we’ll 
prove it before we go to Cruger. Do you suppose I’m going 
with a lie in my mouth? We must make true what we mean 
to say.” 

“ You’re right, Barton,” quietly continued Darcy ; “ but per- 
haps ’twould be well, men, to let you know some things more. 
Now, you must know that Middleton place has been' let alone, 
almost the only house, since the beginning of the war. Old 
Middleton was a mighty great favorite among the people of all 
these parts when he was living ; and Lord Cornwallis hearing 
that, he gave orders not to do any harm to it or the people liv- 
ing there. Well, as they were women only, and had neither 
father, brother, nor son, engaged in the war, there was no provo- 
cation to molest them ; and so things stand there as quietly as 
they did in ‘ seventy-five.’ In that house, men, there’s more 
good old stamped plate than you’ll find in half the country. 1 
reckon you may get barrels of it, yet not have room for all. 
Well, there’s the jewels of the women. It’s a guessr*<of mine 
only, but I reckon a safe one, when I say that I have no doubt 
you’ll find jewels of Flora Middleton enough to help every man 
of us to the West Indies, and for six months after. Now, it’s a 
question whether wo let the captain carry off this girl with /ill 
her jewels, or whether we come in for a share. It’s my notion 


THE OATH OF THE BLACK ETHERS. 


ISo 


it’s that he’s aiming at. Tie don’t care a fig what becomes of ns 
if he can cany off this plunder, and this is the secret of all his 
doings. I know he’s half mad after the girl, and will have her, 
though he takes her with his claws. I move that we have a 
hand in the business. It’s but to steal up to Brier Park, get round 
the place, sound a rebel alarm, and give him a shot while lie’s 
running. After that, the work’s easy. We can then pass off 
upon the women as a rebel troop, and empty the closets at oui 
leisure.” 

The temptations of this counsel were exceeding great. It 
was received without a dissenting voice, though there were sun- 
dry doubts, yet to be satisfied, among the more prudent or the 
more timid. 

“ But the boy — that strange boy, Henry. Pie’s with him. 
What’s to be done with him ?” 

Mary Clarkson had been a breathless listener during the 
whole of this conference. Her emotions were new and inde- 
scribable. Heretofore, strange to say, she had never entertained 
the idea, for a single instant, of Edward Morton loving another 
woman. She had never, during the marauding life of danger 
which he pursued, beheld him in any situation which might 
awaken her female fears. Now, the unreserved communication 
and bold assertion of Darcy, awakened a novel emotion of 
pain within her heart, and a new train of reflection in her mind. 

“ This, then,” she mused to herself, as she recollected the 
conversation that morning with her seducer — “this, then, is the 
bird" that he spoke of — the sweet singing-bird in that gloomy 
castle, which he determined to release. Strange that I had no 
fear, no thought of this ! But he can not love her — No ! no ! 
he has no such nature. It is not possible for him to feel as I 
have felt.” 

She strove to listen again, but sho heard little more. Her 
mind had'Tormed a vague impression of his danger, but it was 
associated with images equally vague in form, but far more im- 
pressive in shadow, of the fair woman whose beauty and whose 
wealth were like supposed to be potential over the rugged chief 
of that fierce banditti. She began to think, for the first time, 
that there was some reason in the complainings of the troop 


186 


THE SCOUT. 


but their suggestion to murder the criminal, revived in all its 
force, if not her old passiclh, at least her habitual feeling of 
dependence upon him. The idea of losing for ever the one 
who, of all the world, she could now seek, was one calculated 
to awaken all her most oppressive fears; and, with a strong 
effort at composure, she now bent all her attention to ascertain 
what were the precise means by which the outlaws proposed to 
effect their objects. The farther details of Darcy enlightened 
her on this head, and she was about to rise from her lowly posi- 
tion and hiding-place, and steal away to Brier Place, in order 
to awaken Morton to his danger, when the inquiry touching her 
own fate commanded her attention. 

“What of the boy, Henry — what shall be done with him 1 
I’m thinking lie’s the one that reports everything to the cap- 
tain. What shall we do with him V* 

“ Cut his throat, to be sure. He is no use to any of us ; and 
if we silence the captain, we must do for him also. I reckon 
they’re together now.” 

“ The getting rid of the boy is a small matter,” said Darcy ; 
“ let’s settle about the principal first, and the rest is easily man- 
aged. We must set about this affair seriously — there must be 
no traitors. We must swear by knife, bullet, tree, and halter — 
the old oath ! — there must be blood on it! Whose blood shall 
it be V* 

“ Mine !” exclaimed Barton, as he thrust forth his brawny arm 
to the stroke, and drew up the sleeve. Mary Clarkson was still 
t oo much of a woman to wait and witness the horrid ceremonial 
by which they bound themselves to one another ; but she could 
hear the smooth, silvery voice of Darcy, while she stole awav 
on noiseless feet, as he severally administered the oath, upon the 
gashed arm of the confederate, to each of the conspirators. 

“ Swear !” 

And the single response of the first ruffian, as he pledged 
himself, struck terror to her heart and gave fleetness to her 
footsteps. 

“ By knife, cord, tree, and bullet, I swear to be true to you, 
my brothers, in this business; — if I fail or betray you, then let 
knife, cord, tree, or bullet, do its work ! — I swear !” 


SOME LOVE PASSAGES AT BRIER PARK. IS? 

The terrible sounds pursued her as she fled ; but even then 
she forgot not what she had heard before, of that “ sweet sing- 
ing bird, in that gloomy cage,” to both of which she was now 
approaching with an equal sentiment of curiosity and terror. 


CHAPTER X YI I. 

SOME LOVE PASSAGES AT BRIER PARK. 

Meanwhile, the chief of the Black Riders pursued his noise- 
tjss way to the scene of his projected operations. Familiar with 
the neighborhood, it was not a difficult matter for him to make 
his progress with sufficient readiness through the gloomy forests. 
The route had been often trodden by him before — often, indeed, 
when the fair Flora Middleton little dreamed of the proximity 
of her dangerous lover — often, when not a star in the sky 
-smiled in encouragement upon his purposes. 

The stars were smiling now — the night was without a cloud, 
unless it were a few of those light, fleecy, transparent robes, 
which the rising moon seems to fling out from her person, and 
which float about her pathway in tributary beauty ; and she, 
herself, the maiden queen, making her stately progress through 
her worshipping dominions, rose with serene aspect and pure 
splendor, shooting her silver arrows on every side into the 
thicket, which they sprinkled, as they flew, with sweet, trans- 
parent droppings, of a glimmering and kindred beauty with her 
own. The winds were whisht or sleeping. The sacred still- 
ness of the sabbath prevailed in the air and over the earth, 
save when some nightbird flapped a drowsy wing among the 
branches which overhung its nest, or, with sudden scream, 
shrunk from the slanting shafts of light now fast falling through 
the forests. 

Were these tender aspects propitious to the purposes of the 
outlaw? Were those smiles of loveliness for him only? No* 
While he pursued the darker passages of the woods, studiously 


188 


THE SCOUT. 


concealing bis person from the light, other and nobler spirit* 
were abroad enjoying it. Love, of another sort than his, was no 
less busy ; and, attended by whatever success, with a spirit for 
more worthy of the gentler influences which prevailed equally 
above the path of both. 

The outlaw reached the grounds of the ancient barony. He 
had almost followed the course of the river, and he now stood 
upon its banks. Il‘is path lay through an old field, now aban- 
doned, which was partly overgrown by the lob-lolly, or shhTt- 
leafed pine. The absence of undergrowth made his progress 
easy. He soon found himself beside the solemn grove which 
had grown up, from immemorial time, in hallowed security 
around the vaulted mansion in which slept the remains of the 
venerable casique of Congaree — for such was old Middleton’s 
title of nobility. He penetrated the sacred enclosure, and, as he 
had frequently done before, examined the entrance of the tomb, 
which he found as easy as usual. 

The dead in the wilderness need no locks or bolts for their 
security. There are no resurrectionists there to annoy them. 
Edward Conway looked about the vault, but there he did not 
long remain. Pressing forward, he approached the park and 
grounds lying mere immediately about the mansion. Here, a 
new occasion for caution presented itself. He found soldiers 
on duty — sentinels put at proper distances; and, fastened to 
the swinging limbs of half a dozen trees, as many dragoon 
horses. 

He changed his course and proceeded on another route, with 
the hope to approach the dwelling without observation; but 
here again the path was guarded. The watch seemed a strict 
one. The sentinels were regular, and their responses so timed, 
as to leave him no prospect of passing through the intervals of 
their rounds. Yet, even if this had been allowed him, what 
good could be effected by it ? He could not hope, himself un- 
seen, to approach the person he sought. Yet he lingered and 
watched, in the eager hope to see by whom she was attended. 
What guest did she entertain ] 

To know this, his curiosity became intense. He would prob 
ably have risked something to have attained this knowledge 


SOME LOYE PASSAGES AT BRIER PARK. 189 

but, under the close watch which environed the habitation, his 
endeavor promised to he utterly hopeless. 

This conviction, after a while, drove him hack to the tomb, 
with curses on his lips and fury in his heart. He was not one 
of those men who had known much, or had learned to endure 
any disappointment ; and his anger and anxiety grew almost to 
fever when, after successive and frequent attempts to find an 
open passage to the house, he was compelled to give up the 
pi spect in despair. 

The guests seemed in no hurry to withdraw ; the lights in the 
dwelling were bright and numerous. He fancied, more than 
once, as he continued his survey, that he could hear the tones 
of Flora’s harpsichord, as the winds brought the sounds in the 
required direction. The twin instincts of hate and jealousy in- 
formed him who was the guest of the maiden. Who could it be 
but Clarence Conway — that kinsman who seemed horn to be 
his bane — to whom he ascribed the loss of property and posi- 
tion ; beneath whose superior virtue his spirit quailed, and to a 
baseless jealousy of whom might, in truth, he ascribed much of 
the unhappy and dishonorable practices which, so far, he had 
almost fruitlessly pursued. Ilis was the jealousy rather of hate 
than love. Perhaps, such a passion as the latter, according to 
the opinion of Mary Clarkson, could not fill the bosom of one so 
utterly selfish as Edward Morton. But he had his desires ; and 
the denial of his object — which, to himself, he dignified with 
the name of love — was quite enough to provoke his wrath to 
frenzy. 

“All, all, has he robbed me of!” he muttered through his 
closed teeth. — “ The love of parents, the regards of friends, the 
attachment of inferiors, the wealth of kindred, and the love of 
woman. He stole from me the smiles of my father — the play- 
mate from my side; the rude woodman, whose blind but fait ! - 
ful attachment was that of the hound, abandoned me to cling to 
him ; and now ! — but I am not sure of this ! He is not sure ! 
Flora Middleton has said nothing yet to justify his presumption, 
and I have sown some bitter seeds of doubt in her soul, which — 
if she be like the rest of her sex, and if that devil, or saint, that 
serves him, do not root up by some miraculous interposition - - 


190 


THE SCOUT. 


will yet bring forth a far different fruit from any which he now 
hopes to taste. Let her but he shy and haughty — let him but 
show himself sensitive and indignant — and all will he done. 
This meeting will prove nothing ; and time gained now is, to 
me, everything. In another week, and I ask no further help 
from fortune. If I win her not hy fair word, I win her hy hold 
deeds ; and then I brush the clay of the Congaree for ever from 
my feet ! The waves of the sea shall separate me for ever from 
the doubts and the dangers, numerous and troublesome, which 
are increasing around me. This silly girl, too, whom no scorn 
can drive from my side — I shall then, and then only, he fairlv 
rid of her !” 

He threw himself on the stone coping which surrounded the 
vault, and surrendered himself up to the bitter meditations which 
a reference to the past life necessarily awakens in every guilty 
bosom. These we care not to pursue ; but, with the reader’s 
permission, will proceed — without heeding those obstructions 
which drove the chief of the Black Riders to his lurking-place 
in the vault — to the mansion of the lovely woman whose for- 
tunes, though we have not yet beheld her person, should already 
have awakened some interest in our regards. 

The instinct of hate in the bosom of Edward Morton had in- 
formed him rightly. The guest of Flora Middleton was his 
hated kinsman. He had reached the barony that very evening, 
and had met with that reception, from the inmates of Brier Park, 
which they were accustomed to show to the ger^omen of all 
parties in that time of suspicion and cautious policy. The grand- 
mother was kind and good-natured as ever ; but Clarence saw, 
in Flora Middleton, or fancied that he saw, an air of haughty 
indifference, which her eyes sometimes exchanged for one of a 
yet more decided feeling. Could it be anger that flashed at 
moments from beneath the long dark eyelashes of that high- 
browed beauty? Was it indignation that gave that curl to her 
rich and rosy lips ; and made her tones, always sweet as a final 
strain of music, now sharp, sudden, and sometimes harsh ? 

The eyes of Clarence looked more than once the inquiry 
which he knew not how to make in any other way ; but only 
once did the dark-blue orbs of Flora encounter his for a pro- 


SOME LOVE PASSAGES AT BRIER PARK. 


191 


longed moment ; and then he thought that their expression waa 
again changed to one of sorrow. After that, she resolutely 
evaded his glance ; and the time, for an hour after his arrival, 
was passed by him in a state of doubtful solicitude ; and by 
Flora, as he could not help thinking, under a feeling of restrain* 
and excessive circumspection, which was new to both of them 
and painful in the last degree to him. All the freedoms of theii 
old intercourse had given way to cold, stiff formalities ; and, in 
place of “Flora” from his lips, and “Clarence” from hers, the 
forms of address became as rigid and ceremonious between then- 
as the most punctilious disciplinarian of manners, in the mo“ 
tenacious school of the puritans, could insist upon. 

Flora Middleton was rather remarkable than beautiful. She 
was a noble specimen of the Anglo-Norman woman. Glo wing 
with health, but softened by grace ; warmed by love, yet not 
obtrusive in her earnestness. Of a temper quick, energetic, and 
decisive ; yet too proud to deal in the language of either anger 
or complaint ; too delicate in her own sensibilities to outrage, by 
heedlessness or haste, the feelings of others. Living at a time, 
and in a region, where life was full of serious purposes and con- 
tinual trials, she was superior to those small tastes and petty 
employments which disparage, too frequently, the understand- 
ings of her sex, and diminish, unhappily, its acknowledged im- 
portance to man and to society. Her thoughts were neither too 
nice for, nor superior to, the business and the events of the time. 
She belonged to that wonderful race of Carolina women, above 
all praise, who could minister, with equal propriety and success, 
at those altars for which their fathers, and husbands, and broth- 
ers fought — who could tend the wounded, nurse the sick, cheei 
the dispirited, arm the warrior for the field — nay, sometimes lift 
spear and sword in sudden emergency, and make desperate bat- 
tle, in compliance with the requisitions of the soul, nerved by 
tenderness, and love, and serious duty, to the most masculine 
exertions — utterly forgetful of those effeminacies of the sex, 
which are partly due to organization and partly to the arbitrary 
and, too frequently, injurious laws of society. 

In such circumstances as characterized the time of which we 
write, women as well as men became superior to affectations oi 


192 


THE SCOUT. 


every kind. The ordinary occupations of life were too grave to 
admit of them. The mind threw off its petty humors with dis- 
dain, and where it did not, the disdain of all other minds was 
sure to attend it. Flora never knew affectations — she was no 
fine lady — had no humors — no vegetable life; but went on 
vigorously enjoying time in the only way, by properly employ- 
ing it. She had her tastes, and might be considered by some 
persons as rather fastidious in them ; but this fastidiousness was 
nothing more than method. Her love of order was one of her 
domestic virtues. But, though singularly methodical for her 
sex, she had no humdrum notions; and* in society, would have 
been the last to be suspected of being very regular in any of 
her habits. Her animation was remarkable. Her playful hu- 
mor — which took no exceptions to simple unrestraint — found 
no fault with the small follies of one’s neighbor ; yet never tres- 
passed beyond the legitimate bounds of amusement. 

That she showed none of this animation — this humor — on 
the present occasion, was one of the chief sources of Clarence 
Conway’s disquietude, llestraint was so remarkable in the case 
of one whose frank, voluntary spirit was always ready with its 
music, that he conjured up the most contradictory notions to 
account for it. 

“ Are you sick ?” he asked ; “ do you feel unwell 1 ?” was one 
of his inquiries, as his disquiet took a new form of apprehension. 

“ Sick — no ! What makes you fancy such a thing, Colonel 
Conway ? Do I look so ?” 

“No; but you seem dull — not in spirits — something must 
have happened — ” 

“ Perhaps something has happened, Cousin Clarence.” This 
was the first phrase of kindness which reminded Clarence of old 
times. He fancied she began to soften. “ Cousin Clarence” 
was one of the familiar forms of address which had been adopted 
by the maiden some years previously, when, mere children, they 
first grew intimate together. 

“But I am not sick,” she continued, “ and still less ought you 
to consider me dull. Such an opinion, Clarence, would annoy 
many a fair damsel of my acquaintance. 4 ’ 

She was evidently thawing. 


SOME LOVE PASSAGES AT BRIER PARK. 198 

u But on that head, Flora, you are too secure to suffer it to 
annoy you.” 

“ Perhaps I am : but you have certainly lost the knack of 
saying fine things. The swamps have impaired your politeness. 
That last phrase has not bettered your speech, since I am at 
liberty to take it as either a reproach or a compliment.” 

Clarence felt that the game was growing encouraging. 

“ Can there be a doubt which ? As a compliment, surely. 
But let me have occasion for another, the meaning of which 
shall be less liable to misconstruction. Let me lead you to the 
harpsichord.” 

“ Excuse me — not to-night, Clarence ;” and her present reply 
was made with recovered rigidity of manner. 

“ If not to-night, Flora, I know not when I shall hear you 
again — perhaps not for months — perhaps, never! I go to 
Ninety-Six to-morrow.” 

Her manner softened as she replied : — 

“Ah! do you, Clarence? — and there, at present, lies the 
whole brunt of the war. I should like to play for you, Clar- 
ence, but I can not. You must be content with music of drum 
and trumpet for a while.” 

“ Why, Flora — you never refused me before V* 

“ True — but ” 

“ But what ! — only one piece, Flora.” 

“Do not ask me again. I can not — I will not play for you 
to-night ; nay, do not interrupt me, Clarence : my harpsichord 
is in tune, and I am not seeking for apologies. I tell you I will 
not play for you to-night, and perhaps I will never play for you 
again.” 

The young colonel of cavalry was astounded. 

“Flora — Flora Middleton!” was his involuntary exclama- 
tion. The venerable grandmother echoed it, though her tones 
were those of exhortation, not of surprise. 

“Flora — Flora, my child — what would you do?” she con- 
tinued with rebuking voice and warning finger. 

“Nay, mother,” said the maiden assuringly — “let me have 
my own way in this. I like frankness, and if Clarence be what 
be has always seenmd —and we always believed him — he will 


194 


THE SCOUT. 


liko it too. I am a country-girl, and may be permitted a little 
of the simplicity — you call it bluntness, perhaps — which is 
natural to one.” 

“ Flora, what can be the meaning of this ?” demanded the 
i->ver with unaffected earnestness and astonishment. “In wdiat 
have I offended you ? For there is some such meaning in your 
u ords.” 

The maiden looked to her grandmother, but did not answer; 
and Conway, though now greatly excited, could readily perceive 
that she labored under feelings which evidently tried her con- 
fidence in herself, and tested all her strength. A deep suffusion 
overspread her cheek, the meaning of which, under other cir- 
cumstances, he might have construed favorably to his suit. 
Meanwhile, the old lady nodded her head with a look of mixed 
meaning, which one, better read in the movements of her mind, 
might have found to signify, “ Go through with what you have 
begun, since you have already gone so far. You can not halt 
now.” 

So, indeed, did it seem to be understood by the maiden ; ft'* 
she instantly recovered herself and continued': — 

“ Give me your arm, Clarence, and I will explain all. I 
am afraid I have overtasked myself ; but the orphan, Clarence 
Conway, must assert her own rights and character, though ic 
may somewhat impair, in the estimation of the stronger sex, he * 
pretensions to feminine delicacy.” 

“ You speak in mysteries, Flora,” was the answer of the 
lover : “ surely the orphan has no wrong to fear at my hands ; 
and what rights of Flora Middleton are there, disputed or de- 
nied hy me, which it becomes her to assert with so much 
solemnity, and at such a fearful risk V* 

“ Come with me, and you shall know all.” 

She took his arm, and, motioning her head expressively to 
her grandmother, led the way to the spacious portico, iialf- 
embowered by gadding vines — already wanton with a thousand 
flowers of the budding season — which formed the high and 
imposing entrance to the ancient dwelling. The ^pol was one 
well chosen for the secrets of young lovers — a home of buds, 
and blossoms, and the hallowing mo mlight— quiet above in the 


some love passages at brier park. 


195 


sky, quiet on the earth ; a scene such as prompts the mind to 
dream that there may be griefs and strifes at a distance — 
rumors of war and bloodshed in barbarian lands, and of tempests 
that will never trouble ours. Clarence paused as they emerged 
into the sweet natural shadows of the spot. 

“ How have I dreamed of these scenes, Flora — this spot — 
these flowers, and these only ! My heart has scarcely forgotten 
the situation of a single bud or leaf. All appears now as I fancy 
it nightly in our long rides and longer watches in the swamp.” 

She answered with a sigh : — 

“ Can war permit of this romance, Clarence ? Can it be pos- 
sible that he who thinks of blood, and battle, and the near 
neighborhood of the foe, has yet a thought to spare to ladies* 
bowers, vines, blossoms, and such woman-fancies as make up 
the pleasures of her listless moods, and furnish, in these times, 
her only, and perhaps her best society.” 

“ I think of them as tributary to her only, Flora. Perhaps 1 
should not have thought of these, but that you were also in my 
thoughts.” 

“ No more, Clarence ; and you remind me of the explanation 
which I have to make, and to demand. Bear with me for a 
moment ; it calls for all my resolution.” 

She seated herself upon a bench beneath the vines, and mo- 
tioned him to a place beside her. After a brief delay — a 
tribute to the weakness of her sex — she began as follows: — 

“ Clarence Conway, before I saw you to-night, I had resolved 
henceforward to regard and treat you as the most indifferent 
stranger that ever challenged the hospitality of my father’s 
dwelling. But I have not been able to keep my resolution. 
Your coming to-night reminds me so much of old times, when I 
had every reason to respect — why should I not say it ? — to like 
you, Clarence, that I feel unwilling to put you off* as a stranger, 
without making such explanations as will justify me in this 
course. Briefly, then, Clarence Conway, some things have 
reached my ears, as if spoken by you, and of me — such things 
as a vain young man m'ght be supposed likely to say of any 
young woman who has suffered him to think that she had 
thoughts for nothing beside himself. I will not tell you. Clar* 


196 


THE SCOUT. 


ence, that I believed all this. I could not dare — I did not wish 
to believe it ; but, I thought it not impossible that you had 
spoken of me, perhaps too familiarly, without contemplating the 
injury you might do me and — do yourself. Now, if you knew 
anything of a maiden’s heart, Clarence Conway — nay, if you 
Knew anything of mine — you would readily imagine what 1 
must have felt on hearing these things. The burning blushes 
on my cheeks now T , painfully as I feel them, were as nothing to 
the galling sting of the moment when I heard this story.” 

“ But you did not believe it, Flora !” 

“ Believe it ? no ! not all — at least — ” 

“ None ! none !” repeated the youth, with stern emphasis, as 
he laid his hand upon her arm, and looked her in the face with 
such an expression as falsehood never yet could assume. 

“ That I should speak this of you, and that you should believe 
it, Flora Middleton, are things which I should have fancied 
equally impossible. Need I say that it is all false — thoroughly 
false ; tli at your name has never passed my lips but with feel- 
ings of the profoundest reverence ; that — but I blush too, at 
the seeming necessity of saying all this, and saying it to you : 
l thought — I could have hoped, Flora Middleton, that you, at 
least, knew me better than to doubt me for a moment, or to 
listen with credulous ear to such a miserable slander. The neces- 
sity of this explanation, next to the sorrow of having given pain 
to you, is the keenest pang which you could make me suffer.” 

“Be not angry, Clarence,” she said gently — “remember 
what society exacts of my sex — remember how much of our 
position depends upon the breath of man ; — our tyrant too often 
— always our sole judge while we dwell upon the earth. His 
whisper of power over us, is our death ; — the death of our pride 
—of that exclusiveness of which he, himself, is perhaps, the 
most jealous being ; and whether the tale of his abuse of this 
power, be true or not — think how it must wound and humble — 
how it must disturb the faith, with the judgment, of the poor 
woman, who feels that she is always, to some degree, at the 
mercy of the irresponsible despot whom she must fear, even 
when she can not honor. I mention this to excuse the prompt- 
ness of my resentment. I tell you, Clarence Conway, that a 


SOME LOVE PASSAGES AT BRIER PARK. 197 

woman of my frank nature, is compelled to be resentful, if she 
would subdue the slanderer to silence. Slander is of such mush- 
room growth, yet spreads over so large a surface, that it is need- 
ful at once to check the first surmises, and doubts, and insinua- 
tions with which it begins its fungous, but poisonous existent e. 
My feeling on this subject — my keen jealousy of my own posi- 
tion — a jealousy the more natural, as, from the frankness of my 
disposition, I am frequently liable to be misunderstood, has pos- 
sibly led me to do you injustice. Even when this reached my 
ears, I did not believe it altogether. 1 thought it not improbable, 
however, that you had spoken of me among your friends, 
and ” 

“ Forgive me that I interrupt you, Flora. 1 feel too much 
pain at what you say — too much annoyance — to suffer you to 
go on. Let me finish my assurances. I shall employ but few 
words, and they shall be final, or — nothing ! I have no friends 
to whom I should ever speak a falsehood of any kind — none to 
whom I would ever utter, with unbecoming familiarity, the name 
of Flora Middleton. If I have spoken of you in the hearing 
of others, it has been very seldom ; only, perhaps, when it 
seemed needful for me to do so — perhaps never more thaw 
once ; and then never in disparagement of that modesty which 
is the noblest characteristic of your sex. But ! ” 

He paused ! He was reminded at this moment of the late 
conference A\diich he had with Edward Conway. In that con- 
ference he had certainly asserted a superior right, over his kins- 
man, to approach Flora Middleton with love. This assertion, 
however, only contemplated the relative position of the brothers, 
one to the other ; and was accompanied by an express disclaimer, 
on the part of Clarence, of any influence over the maiden her- 
self; but the recollection of this circumstance increased the dif- 
ficulties in the way of an explanation, unless by the adoption 
of a single and very simple — but a very direct course — which 
is always apt to be regarded as one of great peril by all youth- 
ful lovers. Clarence Conway was one of those men who know 
only the Alexandrine method of getting through the knots of 
the moral Gordius. 

“7 have spoken of you, Flora — nay, I have spoken of you, 


198 


THE SCOUT. 


and in reference to the most delicate subject in the history of a 
woman’s heart. Thus far I make my confession, and will for- 
bear with your permission saying more — saying what I mean 
to say — until I have craved of you the name of him who has 
thus ventured to defame me.” 

“ I can not tell you, Clarence.” 

“ Can not, Flora ? — Can not ! — ” 

“ JFdl not, is wliat I should say, perhaps; but I have used 
those words once already, to-night, when I felt that they must 
give you pain; and I would have forborne their use a second 
time. I can, certainly, tell you from whom I heard these things, 
but I Avill not.” 

“ And why not, Flora? Would you screen the slanderer?” 

“Yes! — For a very simple reason; — I would not have you 
tight him, Clarence. ” 

“ Enough, Flora, that I know the man. None could be so 
base but the person whom you know as Edward Conway, but 
whom I know ” 

lie paused — lie could not make the revelation. 

“ Ha ! Tell me, Clarence — what know you of Edward Con- 
way, except that he is your near kinsman ?” 

“ That which makes me blush to believe that he is my father’s 
son. But my knowledge is such, Flora, that I will not tell it 
you. It differs from yours in this respect, that, unhappily, it is 
true — all true — terribly true! Know, then, that, to him — to 
Edward Conway — long ago, did I declare, what I once already 
presumed to declare to you — that I loved you — ” 

“ Let me not hear you, Clarence,” said the maiden timidly, 
rising as she spoke. But, he took her hand, and with a gentle 
pressure restored her to her seat beside him. 

“I must. It is now necessary for my exculpation. Befoie 
he saw you, he knew that I loved you, and was the faithless 
confidante of my unsuspecting affections. He betrayed them. 
He sought you thenceforward with love ■ himself. Words of 
anger — blows, almost — followed between us; and though we 
did not actually reach that issue, yet suspicion, and jealousy, 
and hate, are now the terms on which we stand to each other, 
lie poured this cursed falsehood into your ears, I have reason 


SOME LOVE PASSAGES AT BRIER PARK. 


199 


to think, but ten days ago. Within the same space of time T 
have saved his life. To him, only, have I spoken of you in 
terms liable to misrepresentation. I did not speak of having 
claims upon you, Flora, but upon him; — I charged him with 
treachery to my trust, though I did not then dream that he had 
been the doubly -dyed traitor that I have since found him.” 

“ Let us return to the parlor, Clarence.” 

“ No, Flora,” said the youth, with mild and mournful accents. 
“ No, Flora Middleton, let our understanding be final. To- 
morrow I go to Ninety-Six, and God knows what fate awaits 
me there. You, perhaps, can assist in determining it, by the 
response which you make to-night. I wrote you by John Ban- 
nister, Flora — I know that you received that letter— yet you 
sent me no answer.” 

‘“Let me confess, also, Clarence: — But three days before I 
received your letter, I was told of this.” 

“ Ha ! Has the reptile been so long at his web ?” exclaimed 
the youth — “ But I will crush him in it yet.” 

“ Beware ! Oh ! Clarence Conway, beware of what you 
say. Beware rash vows and rash performances. Do you forget 
that the man of whom you speak is your brother — the son of 
your father V* 

“ Why should I remember that which he has himself forgot- 
ten ; — nay, which he repudiates with bitterest curses, and which 
the black deeds of his wretched life — of which, as yet, you 
know nothing — have repudiated more effectually than all. But 
l would not speak of him now, Flora. I would, if possible, 
exclude all bitterness from my thought — as in speaking to you, 
l would exclude it from my lips. Hear me, Flora. You know 
the service I am sent upon. You can imagine some of its dan- 
gers. The employment now before me is particularly so. The 
strife along the Saluda is one of no ordinary character. It is a 
strife between brothers, all of whom have learned to hate as I 
do, and to seek to destroy with an appetite of far greater anx- 
iety. The terms between whig and tory, now, are death only. 
No quarter is demanded — none is given.” 

“ I know ! I know ! Say no more of this horrible condition 
of things. 1 know it all.” 


200 


THE SCOUT. 


“ The final issue is at hand, and victory is almost in out 
grasp. The fury of the tories increases with their despair. 
They feel that they must fly the country, and they are accord- 
ingly drenching it with blood. I speak to you, therefore, with 
the solemnity of one who may never see you more. But if we 
do meet again, Flora, dear Flora — if I survive this bloody cam- 
paign — may I hope that then — these doubts all dispersed, 
these slanders disproven — you will look on me with favor ; you 
will smile — you will be mine ; mine only — all mine !” 

The tremors of the soft white hand which he grasped within 
his own assured the lover of the emotion in her breast. Her 
bosom heaved for an instant, but she was spared the necessity 
of making that answer, which, whether it be “ no” or “ yes,” is 
equally difficult for any young damsel’s utterance. A sharp, 
sudden signal whistle was sounded from without at this moment ; 
— once — twice — thrice ; — a bustle was heard among the few 
dragoons who had been stationed by the prudent commander 
about the premises ; and, a moment after, the subdued tones of 
the faithful Supple Jack apprized his captain that danger was 
at hand. 

“ Speak ! — speak to me, Flora, ere I leave you — ere I leave 
you, perhaps, for ever! Speak to me! — tell me that I have 
not prayed for your love and devoted myself in vain. Send me 
not forth, doubtful or hopeless. If it be ” 

Sweet, indeed, to his heart, were the tremulous beatings 
which he distinctly heard of hers. They said all that her lips 
refused to say. Yet never was heart more ready to respond in 
the affirmative — never were lips more willing to declare them- 
selves. One reflection alone determined her not to do so. It 
was a feeling of feminine delicacy that prompted her, for the 
time, to withhold the confession of feminine weakness. 

“What!” — such was the reflection as it passed through her 
mind — “ bring him to these shades to hear such a confession! 
Impossible! What will he think of me? No! no! — not to- 
night. Not here, at least!” 

She was still silent, but her agitation evidently increased; 
yet not more than that of her lover. The summons of the faith- 


SOME LOVE PASSAGES AT BRIER PARK. 201 

tul scout was again repeated. The circumstances admitted of 
no delay. 

“ Oh, speak to me, dearest Flora. Surely you can not need 
any new knowledge of what I am, or of the love that I bear 
you. Surely, you can not still give faith to these wretched 
slanders of my wretched brother!” 

“No! no!” she eagerly answered. “I believe you to bo 
true, Clarence, and as honorable as you are faithful. But in re- 
spect to what you plead, Clarence, I can not answer now — not 
here , at least. Let me leave you now !” 

“ Not yet, Flora ! But one word.” 

“Not here , Clarence — not here!” with energy. 

“ Tell me that I may hope !” 

‘I can tell you nothing now, Clarence — not a word here” 

Her lips were inflexible ; but if ever hand yet spoke the 
meaning of its kindred heart, then did the soft, shrinking hand 
which he grasped nervously in his own, declare the meaning of 
hers. It said “ hope on — love on !” as plainly as maiden finger 
ever said it yet ; and this was all — and, perhaps, enough, 
as a first answer to a young beginner — which she then vouch- 
safed him, as she glided into the apartment. In the next 
moment the faithful Supple Jack, clearing, at a single bound, 
the height from the terrace to the upper balcony, in which the 
interview had taken place, breathed into the half oblivious senses 
of his commander the hurried words — 

“ The British and tories are upon us, Clarence ! We have 
not a moment to lose !” 

9 * 


202 


THE SCOUT. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A CONFERENCE IN THE TOMB. 

These words at once awoke the young soldier to activity 
Clarence Conway was not the man to become subdued by 
“Amaryllis in the shade,” nor meshed, fly-like, in the “tangles 
of any Nseera’s hair.” A new mood possessed him with the 
communication of his faithful scout, who, by the way, also per- 
formed the duties of his lieutenant. 

“ Get your men instantly to horse, Jack Bannister, and send 
them forward on the back track to the river,” was the prompt 
command of the superior. 

“ Done a’ready, colonel,” was the respectful answer. 

“ Good ; — and, now, for your report.” 

The examination which followed was brief, rapid, and com- 
prehensive. Though fond of long speeches usually, Jack Ban- 
nister was yet the model of a man of business. He could con- 
fine himself, when needful, to the very letter. 

“From whence came the enemy 1 ? — above or below?” 

“ Below, sir.” 

* What force do your scouts report to you V* 

“Large! — I reckon it’s Rawdon’s whole strength; but the 
advance only is at hand.” 

“ Rawdon, ha ! He goes then to the relief of ‘ Ninety Six.’ 
I trust he goes too late. But our business is scarce with him. 
What cavalry has he ? Did you learn that V * 

“ It’s mighty small, I’m thinking ; but we can’t hear for sar- 
tin. It’s had a monstrous bad cutting up, you know, at Orange- 
burg, and don’t count more, I reckon, than sixty men, all told 
That’s the whole force of Coffin, I know.” 

“We must manage that, then ! It’s the only mode in which 
we can annoy Rawdon and baffle his objects. Between ‘ Brier 


A CONFERENCE IN THE TOMB. 203 

Park’ and ‘Ninety-Six’ we should surely pick up all of his flock 
— and must ? Are the scouts in ? All V* 

“All but Finley — I’m jub’ous lie’s cut off below. They’ve 
caught him napping, I reckon.” 

“ If so, he has paid before this, the penalty of his nap. We 
must be careful not to incur like penalties. We have nothing 
to do but to draw off quietly from Brier Park, taking the back 
track by the river, and plant ourselves in waiting a few miles 
above. There are a dozen places along the road where we can 
bring them into a neat ambush, which will enable us to empty 
their saddles. What do the lower scouts say of their order of 
march ?” 

“ Precious little ! They had to run for it — Coffin’s cavalry 
scouring pretty considerably ahead. But they keep up a mighty 
quick step. It’s a forced march, and his cavalry is a mile or 
more in advance.” 

“ They march without beat of drum V* 

“ Or blast of bugle ; — so quiet you can hardly hear the clat- 
ter of a sabre. Nothing but the heavy tread of their feet.” 

“ Enough. As you have sent the troop forward, let your 
scouts file oft’ quietly after them. Keep close along the river, 
and let them all be in saddle when I reach them at the end of 
the causey. Rawdon will probably make the ‘Barony’ his place 
of rest to-night. He must have marched forty miles since, last 
midnight. Pity we had not known of this! That fellow, Fin- 
ley — he was a sharp fellow, too — but no matter ! Go you now, 
Bannister. Have my horse in readiness by the old vault ; and 
let your scouts, in filing off, dismount and lead their horses, that 
there may be no unnecessary clatter of hoofs. Away, now — I 
will but say farewell to Mrs. Middleton and Flora.” 

“ Tell ’em good-by for me, too, colonel, if you please ; for 
they’ve always been mighty genteel in the way they’ve behaved 
to me, and I like to be civil.” 

Clarence promised him, and the excellent fellow disappeared, 
glad to serve the person whom he most affectionately loved. 
Clarence then proceeded to the apartment in which the ladies 
were sitting, and suffering under the natural excitement pro- 
duced by the intelligence, always so startling in those days, of 


204 


THE SCOUT. 


the approach of a British army. Brief words at parting were 
allowed to the lovers ; and whether Mrs. Middleton conjectured, 
or had been told by Flora, of what had taken place between 
them, the old lady was civil enough to leave the couple together 
without the restraint of her maternal presence. Preliminaries, 
at such moments, among sensible people, are usually dispensed 
with. 

“ You will not answer me, Flora V* 

“ Spare me Clarence — not now.” 

“ N6t now ! Think, dearest Flora, of the circumstances under 
which I leave you : the force that drives me from your presence ! 
Remember the danger that follows my footsteps, and the dan- 
gers which I am bound to seek. I may never again behold 
you — may lose, in the skirmish of the dawn, the hope, the fear, 
the thousand dreams and anxieties which now possess and alter- 
nately afflict and delight my heart. Let me not go forth trem- 
bling with this doubt. But one word — one only — which shall 
fill my bosom with new spirit, strength and courage. Speak, 
dearest Flora — but a single word !” 

“ Ah, Clarence, urge me not ! What I should say might have 
a very different effect upon you ; might subdue your spirit, dis- 
arm your strength ; make your heart to waver in its courage ; 
might ” 

“Enough! enough! I ask for no other answer!” he ex- 
claimed, with bright eyes and a bounding spirit. “ Nothing 
could do that but the fear of losing a treasure suddenly won, and 
so precious, over all things, in my sight. But I trust that this 
sweet conviction, dear Flora, will have no such effect upon my 
spirit. If, before, I fought only for my country, I now fight for 
love and country ; and the double cause should occasion double 
courage! Farewell — farewell! God be with you, and his 
angels watch over you, as fondly, as faithfully, and with more 
ability to serve you, than your own Clarence. Farewell, fare- 
well !” 

Hastily seizing her hand, he carried it to his lips with a fer- 
vent pressure : then, elastic with new emotions of delight, that 
made him heedless and thoughtless of the danger, he hurried 
downward into the court-yard below. The area lay in utter 


A CONFERENCE IN THE TOMB. 


205 


silence. The scouts had gone, the sentinels withdrawn , and, 
with a single glance up to the apartment where he had left the 
lady of his love, the youthful partisan took his way after his 
lieutenant. Let us only follow him so far as to look after other 
agents in our narrative, who lie upon his route, and whom wo 
may no longer leave unnoticed. 

Long and wearisome, indeed, had been the hour of anxious 
watch which the chief of the Black Riders had maintained over 
the barony, in his gloomy hiding-place. Twenty times, in that 
period, had he emerged from the tomb, and advanced toward 
the dwelling of the living. But his course was bounded by the 
military restraints which the timely prudence of Conway, and 
the watchfulness of Bannister, had set around the mansion. 
Vainly, from the cover of this or that friendly tree, did his eyes 
strain to pierce the misty intervals, and penetrate the apartment 
whose gay lights and occasional shadows were all that were dis- 
tinguishable. Disappointed each time, he returned to his place 
of concealment, with increasing chagrin ; plunging, in sheer 
desperation, down into its awful and dark recesses, which to him 
presented no aspects of either awe or darkness. 

At length, however, the sound of a movement near the man- 
sion awakened in him a hope that his tedious watch would 
shortly end. Slight though the noises were, under the cautious 
management of Bannister, the calling in of the sentries, and 
their withdrawal, necessarily reached his ears, and prepared him 
for the movement of the troop which followed. Each trooper 
leading his steed with shortened rein, they deployed slowly 
beside the tomb, little dreaming whom it harbored ; and the out- 
law was compelled, during their progress, to observe the most 
singular quiet. 

The vaulted habitations of the dead were no unfrequent 
hiding-places in those days for the living, and, to a trooper, 
trained in the swamp warfare, to convert every situation of 
obscurity and darkness into a place of retreat or ambush, the 
slightest circumstance or movement on his part, he well knew, 
would result in their sudden search of his gloomy house of 
refuge. Through a chink in the decaying floor of the vault, he 
watched their progress ; and when they had gone from sight, 


206 


THE SCOUT. 


swallowed up m tlie deep blank of the forest along the margin 
of the river, he once more ascended to the light. 

His path now promised to be free. He knew the troop to be 
one of his brother’s regiment — a small though famous squadron 
— “The Congaree Blues” — proverbial for bold riding, happy 
horsemanship, and all of that characteristic daring which every- 
where marked the southern cavalry throughout the war. The 
uniform he readily distinguished, though not the persons. He 
fancied that his brother was among them ; and, hearing no 
further sound, with that impatience which was natural to his 
desires, and which was necessarily increased by the restraints to 
which they had been subjected, he prepared to go boldly for- 
ward to the mansion. 

But the coast was not yet clear. He had advanced a few 
paces only, when he heard the faint, but mellow tones of a dis- 
tant bugle, rising and falling in sweet harmony with the light 
zephyrs which bore them to his ears. These sounds now fur- 
nished him with the true reason for his brother’s flight, and this 
was of a sort which should not have troubled him. The ene- 
mies of his kinsman, according to his profession, were not un- 
likely to be his friends ; yet the business upon which the heart 
of Edward Morton was set, and the position in which he then 
stood, were such as to make the presence of a British force 
almost as little desirable to him as had been that of his brother. 
His present objects admitted of no friendships. Thoroughly 
selfish, they could only be prosecuted at the expense of the 
cause in which he was engaged, and at the sacrifice of that band 
with which, for life and death, his own life — if his oath to them 
were of any value — was solemnly and indissolubly connected. 

Bitterly, therefore, and with renewed vexation, did he listen 
to the sweet but startling tones of that sudden trumpet. Curs- 
ing the course of events which, so far, that night, seemed destined 
to baffle his purposes, he stood for a few moments, in doubt, 
upon the spot where the sounds first struck his ears ; hesitating 
whether to go forward boldly, or at once return to his place of 
safety. 

To adopt the former course, was, in his present undisguised 
condition, to declare to Flora Middleton the fact, which he had 


A CONFERENCE IN THE TOMB. 


207 


hitherto studiously concealed from her knowledge, of his connec- 
tion with the British cause. Such a revelation, he well knew, 
would, in the mind of one so religiously devoted to the whig 
party as was that maiden, operate most unfavorably against his 
personal pretensions, on the success of which, he still flattered 
himself, he might, in some degree, rely. 

While he doubted and deliberated on his course, he was star- 
tled by other sounds, which warned him of the necessity of a 
prompt determination. The heavy footsteps of a man, whose 
tread was measured like that of a soldier, were heard approach- 
ing through the gro^e that extended from the dwelling in the 
direction of the tomb ; and the outlaw moved hurriedly back to 
the shelter he had left. 

He was scarcely rapid enough in his movements. The per- 
son approaching was no other than Clarence Conway. He had 
just parted, as we have seen, with Flora Middleton. Her last 
words were still sounding in his ears like some sweet, melan- 
choly music, which the language of one heart delivers, in love, 
for the consolation of another. The last pressure of her hand 
seemed still to make itself felt from his own, upward, to his 
heart, with a sensation which carried a thrill of joy to its deep- 
est recesses. With the bugle of the enemy sounding on the 
track behind him, he had then no thought, no feeling for the 
enemy — and, certainly, no fear. Foes, at that moment, if not 
forgotten, awakened no emotion in his bosom which a smile of 
indifference upon his lips did not sufficiently express. 

From musings, the dreamy languor of which may be readily 
imagined, he was awakened by the sudden glimpse he had 
caught of his kinsman’s person. The mere human outline was 
all that he beheld, and this for an instant only. At first, he 
was disposed to fancy that it was one of his own dragoons, all 
of whom had gone forward in that direction, and one of whom 
might have been left in the hurry of his comrades, or possibly 
detached on some special service. 

But the retreat of the outlaw had been too precipitate — too 
like a flight — not to awaken instantly the suspicions of the pai 
tisan. To challenge the fugitive by the usual summons was 
probably to alarm his own enemies, and was a measure not to 


208 


THE SCOUT. 


be thought of. To hurry in pursuit was the only mode of as* 
certaining his object, and this mode was put in execution as 
promptly as resolved upon. 

The partisan rushed forward, but the object of his pursuit was 
no longer to be seen. The old field, on one hand, was bare and 
desolate — the park, on the left, did not attract the youth’s at- 
tention. Obviously, the melancholy grove which led to and en- 
vironed the ancient vault, was that to which the footsteps of the 
fugitive would most naturally incline. Into the deep shadows 
of this he pressed forward, until he stood beside the tomb 
Then, and not till then, did he speak, challenging the fugitive to 
“ stand” whom he could no longer see. 

The summons was heard the moment after the outlaw had 
buried himself in his place of concealment. The tones of his 
Drother’s voice arrested the outlaw. That voice awakened all 
his rage and hate, while reminding him of his gage of battle ; 
and when he remembered that Clarence Conway had but that 
instant left the presence of the woman whom he sought, and 
whom he had not been permitted to see — when he remembered 
that he was his hated rival, and when he thought that his lips 
might even then be warm with the fresh kisses of hers — the 
feelings in his heart were no longer governable ! Uniting with’ 
that gnawing impatience, which had grown almost to a fever, 
and was a frenzy, under his late constraint, they determined him 
against all hazards ; and, darting from the vault, he answered 
the summons of his foe with a hiss of scorn and defiance. 

“Stand thou! — Clarence Conway — wretch and rebel! We 
are met on equal terms at last.” 

“Ay,” cried the other, nowise startled at the sudden appa- 
rition ; “ well met !” and as the outlaw sprang forward from the 
tomb with uplifted dagger, Clarence met him with his own. 

A moment’s collision only had ensued, when the latter struck 
his weapon into the mouth of his enemy, with a blow so force- 
ful as to precipitate him back into the cavern which he had just 
left. Clarenee sprang into the tomb after him, and there, in the 
deep darkness of the scene, among the mouldering coffins and 
dry bones of the dead, the brothers grappled in deadly despora 
ttOQ. 


A CONFERENCE IN THE TOMB 


209 


Doatli, and the presence of its aAvful trophies, had no terrors 
tor either. The living passions of the heart were triumphant 
over their threatening shadows, and the struggle was renewed 
between the two with a degree of hate and fury that found in- 
crease rather than diminution from the solemn and dark associa- 
tions by which they were encompassed. But few words were 
spoken, and those only in the breathing intervals which their 
struggles left them The language of the outlaw was that of 
vituperation and hate ; that of Conway, an indignation natural 
to feelings which revolted at the brutal and sanguinary rage of 
his enemy, tempered, at the same time, with equal scorn* and 
resolution. 

In Clarence Conway, the chief of the Black Riders saw only 
the im bodied form of all the evil influences which he had felt or 
fancied from his boyhood ; the long-engendered envy and mal 
ice of twenty years finding, at length, its unqualified expression. 
In his eyes, he was the hateful rival who had beguiled from 
him, with equal facility, the regards of parents, the attachments 
of friends, the smiles of fortune, and the love of woman. 

Clarence, on the other hand, no longer saw the kinsman of his 
youth — the son of the same father — in the person of the out- 
law ; or, if he remembered the ties of blood at all, it was only to 
warm his hostility the more against one who had so commonly 
outraged, and so cruelly dishonored them ! It was as the be- 
trayer of his country, and the associate of the most savage out- 
laws that ever arrayed themselves against her peace and lib- 
erty, that he struck, and struck with fatal design to destroy and 
extirpate ! Nor need it be denied that these motives were 
stimulated by the conviction that he himself fought for life, 
with a personal foe who had threatened him with all the haunt- 
ing dangers of an enduring and bloody enmity — a hatred born 
without cause, and nourished without restraint — warmed by bad 
passions, mean rivalry, and a suspicious selfishness, which no 
labor of love could render reasonable, and wdiicli could only 
finally cease in the death of one or both of the combatants. The 
incoherent language, the broken words, and fiendish threaten- 
ings of the outlaw, left nothing on this subject to conjecture ; 
and while the two writhed together in their narrow apartment 


210 


THE SCOUT. 


the otherwise horrible stillness of their strife might be thought, 
relieved and rendered human by the bursts of passion and invec- 
tive which fell the while from the lips of both. But these 
caused no interruption to the conflict. They fought only with 
daggers, though both were provided with sword and pistol. A 
mutual sense of the proximity of those whom neither wished to 
alarm, rendered them careful not to employ weapons which 
could draw a third party to the scene of strife. Besides, the 
dagger was the only weapon that might be employed in their 
limited area with any propriety. This weapon, deadly hi the 
close struggle as it usually is, was rendered less effectual in the 
imperfect light of the place, and by the baffling readiness of 
their rival skill. They both felt that the struggle must be fatal, 
and did not, accordingly, suffer their rage to disarm their provi- 
dence and caution. Still, several wounds had been given and 
received on either side. One of these had penetrated the right 
arm of the partisan, but the point of the dagger had been diverted, 
and the wound was one of the flesh only, not deep nor disabling. 
The outlaw had been less fortunate. That first blow, which he 
had received in the mouth at the entrance of the vault, had 
necessarily influenced the combat as first blows usually do ; 
and, though not of serious hurt, for the point of the weapon 
found resistance against his clenched teeth, two of which were 
broken, still it seriously affected the relations of the parties. 
The one it encouraged, the other it provoked to increased anger, 
which impaired his coolness. A second and third wound in 
each of his arms had followed in the vault, and a moment came 
in which a fourth promised to be final. 

Clarence had grappled closely with his kinsman, had borne 
him backward, and succeeded in prostrating him, face upward, 
upon the pile of coffins which rose in the centre of the tomb. 
Here, with his knee upon the breast of his enemy, one hand 
upon his throat, and the other bearing on high the already 
dripping steel, the stroke and the death seemed equally inevita- 
ble. So, indeed, the outlaw considered it; and the language 
of his lips at that moment of his greatest peril, spoke more de- 
cisively for his manhood than, perhaps, it had ever done before. 

“ Strike 1” ho cried; “I fear you not! The devil you have 


A CONFERENCE TN THE TOMB. 


211 


served lias served yon faithfully in turn ! I ask you not for 
mercy — I loathe you, Clarence Conway — I loathe and curse 
you to the last. Strike then, as I should have stricken you, 
had the chance fallen to my lot.” 

f l he weakness of a human and a social sentiment made the 
youth hesitate. He shivered as he thought upon the ties of 
hlood — ties which he could never entirely forget, however 
much they might be scorned by his profligate brother. He was 
still his father’s son — he would have spared — he wished to 
spare him. 

While he hesitated, a new and desperate effort was made by 
the prostrate outlaw. Hope and fear united for a last and ter- 
rible struggle. He half rose — he grasped the arm with which 
Clarence held him, with demoniac strength, and flinging him- 
self upward, with the exercise of all that muscle which he pos- 
sessed in almost equal degree with his brother, he had nearly 
shaken himself free from the hold which the latter had taken 
upon him. 

It was then that the dagger of Clarence descended ! — then, 
when it became obvious that no indulgence could be given to 
his foe without danger to himself. But the blow, even then, was 
not final — not fatal. It touched no vital region. The desper- 
ate effort of the outlaw, though it failed in its object, effected 
another, which operated to his partial safety. The mouldering 
coffins upon which he was stretched yielded beneath his gigan- 
tic struggles, sank under the violence and pressure, and, ere the 
blow reached the heart of the threatened victim, came down, 
with a fearful crash, in fragments upon the damp floor of the 
vault. The dagger-point barely grazed the breast of the falling 
man ; and Clarence, still grappling with his foe and grappled 
by him in turn, was dragged downward to the earth, and the 
two lay together for an instant, without strife, among the 
crushed and bleached bones of bygone generations. Both were 
breathless, but there was no mitigation of their fury. With 
some difficulty they scrambled to their feet, separated for a 
moment, but only, in the next, to renew their terrible embrace. 

“ Let there be an end to this !” said Morton, hoarsely. “ Let 
us go forth into the moonlight; we can do nothing here, it seems.” 


212 


THE SCOUT. 


“Ay-, anywhere !” was the reply of the other; “but let it b© 
quietly : I have not a moment to spare.” 

“A moment should suffice for either, and would have done so, 
had there been sufficient light for the business. So far, Clarence 
Conway, you have had the matter all to yourself. But there is 
a daiy for every dog, they tell us; and, though still there be no 
daylight, I trust that my day is at hand. Lead the way; I am 
ready. Let the dagger still be the weapon. It is a sure one, 
and makes but little clatter. Besides, it brings us so much the 
Higher to each other, which is brotherly, you know.” 

The. sterner, perhaps the nobler, features of the outlaw stood 
out in bolder relief at the moment which he himself believed 
was one of the greatest danger. Morton was not deficient in 
animal courage. It was only less frequently apparent, because, 
like the Italian, he preferred the practice of a subtler agent. A 
fierce laugh concluded his attempt at playfulness. To this the 
heart of Clarence gave back no response. Though not less 
fearless than lfis" brother — nay, though greatly excited by the 
strife — it yet had, to his mind, the aspect of a horror which he 
could not complacently behold. The few moments consumed in 
this brief dialogue had brought him back to those reflections 
which the provocation of the strife had almost wholly banished. 
But he suffered no mental or moral scruples, at such a moment, 
to impair his manhood. 

“ I too am .ready,” was his only answer as he left the vault. 
He was followed by the outlaw ; and there, in another moment, 
they stood together on the green sward before the tomb, fiercely 
confronting each other with eyes of mortal hate — utterly un- 
moved by the pure and placid smiles of that maiden moon whose 
blessed light they were about to employ for the most unblessed 
purpose. 


THE OOMRAT OP THE RROTHERH. 


213 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE COMBAT OF THE BROTHERS. 

The ancient additaments for the groundwork of the grand or 
terrible, the wild or warlike, would have borne aspects not 
unlike their own. Ordinarily, the painter of the darker passions 
is very apt to accompany their explosion with a sympathetic 
action on the part of the natural world. The hero, just before 
committing the deed of blood, stalks upon the scene, surrounded 
by the gloomy shadows of the night ; storm and thunder attend 
upon his footsteps, and the fiery eyes of the rebuking heaven 
glare along his path in flashes of impetuous lightning. A voice 
of warning is heard to mutter in the sky. The bloody dagger, 
the awful sign of the crime which is already acted in the mind 
of the criminal, hangs in the air above him, and marshals him 
the way that he must follow ; while the ghosts of the past reap- 
pear, shaking their gory locks, to impede or to precipitate the 
ghost-like progress of the future. All things are made to act in 
harmony with that terrible passion which has already thrown 
over the heart of the possessor the uniform “brown horror” 
which distinguishes its own unvarying aspect. There is no 
blue in the transparent softness of the noonday sky ; there is no 
living green in the fresh sward of the luxuriant earth ; the songs 
of the one, and the mellow voices of the other, receive their 
savage or sad tones wholly from the desolate or depraved soul 
which speaks in the bosom of the fated actor. All forms and 
features, sights and sounds, are made to correspond with his 
prevailing passion ; and the hues of sky and land become natu- 
rally incarnadined by the bloody mood which governs in his 
soul. The voices which he hears, whether of earth or sky, are 
only such as rise from the groaning victims, who start, perhaps, 
from the embrace of slumber, to sleep in that of death. 

But, very different from these were the auxiliary aspects of 


214 


THE SCOUT. 


that scene upon which the rival kinsmen were about to contend. 
Never was night more beautiful, more uniformly beautiful and 
tender, in any one of its thousand attributes and agents. The 
moon, almost at her full, was high above the forest tops, and 
hallowing its deep and dim recesses with innumerable streams 
of glory from her own celestial fountain. Few were the clouds 
that gathered about her path, and these, sharing in her gifts of 
beauty, became tributary to her lustrous progress. A gentle 
breeze, rising from the east, accompanied her march, and the 
tall pines swayed to and fro beneath its pressure, yielding a 
whispering music, like those faint utterances of a sweet com- 
plaint which are made by the curling billows of the sea, when 
they break and die away in a languid struggle with the shore. 
These breathings found fit fellowship in the gentle murmurs of 
the Congaree, as it rippled away on its sleepless path, at a little 
distance from the scene of strife. Lighted by the moon above, 
its winding form might be seen, in silvery glimpses, where the 
vistas of the woods had been opened by that tasteful art which 
had presided over the barony from its first settlement. Nothing 
was dark, nothing sad, stern, or terrible, but the human agents 
of the scene. 

There they stood, frowning defiance upon each other, and 
looking grim and ghastly, in the pure, sweet atmosphere of light 
by which they were enveloped. The aspect of the outlaw was 
particularly terrible, in consequence of the wound which he had 
received in the mouth at the beginning of the conflict. The 
upper lip was divided by the stroke, the teeth shattered ; and, 
smeared and clotted with blood, his face presented the appear- 
ance of one already stamped with all the features of the 
grave, and marked with an expression of hate and passion 
which increased its terrors. That of the partisan was stern, but 
unruffled — pale, but inflexible. His eyes were full of that fiery 
energy which, perhaps, distinguished equally the characters of 
the brothers. The lips were closely compressed, and resembled 
that sweet serenity, that resigned and noble melancholy, which 
peculiarly distinguishes the same feature in the instance of 
nearly every Indian warrior that we have ever seen. There 
was no faltering in his soul — he was as firm of purpose as his 


THE COMBAT OF THE BROTHERS. 


215 


enemy ; but there were other moods At work within him which 
the outlaw could not feel. Clarence Conway was not the per- 
son to entertain hate alone, to the exclusion of other and better 
feelings. 

The outlaw unbuckled the sabre from his side, the sable belt, 
and threw them down, with the pistols which he carried, at the 
foot of the vault. He seemed resolute that there should be mi 
possible obstruction to his movements in the struggle which was 
about to take place. Clarence Conway, on the other hand, took 
no such precaution. He calmly surveyed the movements of his 
opponent without changing muscle or positions. His eye glanced, 
however, with a momentary anxiety, to the clear blue vault, 
and the pale, pure presence looking down upon him from above, 
and turned involuntarily, though for a single instant only, to the 
distant dwelling of Flora Middleton. But this was not a inomen. 
to betray the weakness of the sentimentalist or lover. His 
enemy stood before him, and was ready. The outlaw had wit- 
nessed the direction of his foeman’s eye, and the words of prov- 
ocation gushed from him in increasing bitterness. 

“ Ay, look, Clarence Conway — look ! It may be for the last 
lime ! For that matter we may both look ; for I tell you, there 
shall be no child’s play between us. Here, on this green turf, 
and under that smiling heaven, shall I be stretched in death, 
ere I yield up a single sentiment of that hate which makes it 
necessary that one of us should die for the peace and security 
of the other.” 

“ And is it necessary, either for your peace or mine, that such 
should be the case ?” demanded Clarence Conway. 

“Ay! absolutely necessary. We can not breathe the same 
atmosphere. Come !” 

Their arms were raised, their feet planted in opposition— 
their eyes fixed upon each other, and riveted in glassy, serpent- 
like watchfulness and calm. 

“ Are you ready V* was the question of the outlaw, 

“Stay!” replied Clarence, while he continued to regard his 
enemy with a face of increased deliberation. 

“Stay! and why should we stay?” retorted the other. 

■ « Are you so soon quieted ! Does your stomach revolt at tho 


210 


THE SCOUT. 


idea of a final struggle wliicli shall end the strife between 
us ?” 

•* It does f” 

“ Ha ! Has it then come to that ?” was the ironical speech 
of the outlaw ; but Clarence interrupted him with a cool firmness 
of tone and look which disarmed the intended sarcasm. 

You may spare your irony, Edward Morton. That 1 fear 
you not, you should know. That I am your superior in strength 
you have long since discovered — that I am, at least, your match 
with any w'eapon known to either of us, you can not deny ; ana 
you know that I have no dread of death.” 

“ To what does all this tend? It means everything or noth 
ing. Grant what you have said, still it does not follow that you 
shall triumph over me. You may slay me, but 1 can grapple 
with you, Clarence Conway — I can rush upon your weapon, 
and, sacrificing myself, succeed in killing you ! Ha ! is not that 
undeniable also ?” 

“ Perhaps so was the deliberate answer. “ But even this 
does not influence me in what I mean to say. There is a con- 
sideration of far more weight which would make me avoid this 
conflict.” 

“ Ah ! it is that, eh ? But you shall not avoid it ! I am a 
desperate jnan, Clarence Conway, and such a man always has 
the life of his enemy at the point of his dagger!” 

“ Be it so ; but hear ine ; For all your crimes, all your hate 
and hostility to me — all your treachery to your country — still 
I shall find no pleasure in being your executioner.” 

“Indeed! But be not too sure. It has not yet come to 
that !” cried the other. “ There are two to play at this game, 
and I flatter myself that 1 shall turn the tables upon you this 
bout. We have some light now on the subject, and these pricks 
which you gave me in the dark, have rather warmed me for the 
conflict. They rather better my chances, by rousing me to the 
proper feeling of strife ; as, to graze the bear with a bullet, is 
to make him more affectionate in his squeeze. So, look to it I 
our embrace will be a close one. Come on quickly. We can 
uot too soon make a finish now.” 

“lou deceive yourself, Edward Conway — fatally deceive 


THE COMBAT OF THE BROTHERS. 


217 


yourself if you have such a fancy replied Clarence solemnly 
“ If we encounter again I shall kill you. Nothing can save 
you. I feel it— I know it. I can not help hut kill you.” 

“ Insolent braggart ! But, come on !” 

“ 1 have said nothing hut the truth, and what I feel must he 
the result of this struggle. Hear me but an instant more, and 
judge. I shall find no pleasure in taking your life. 1 can not 
forget many things, and I am not desperate. However you 
may deride and despise the claims of blood and the opinions of 
society, it is impossible for me to do so. For this reason I would 
forego the indulgence of those passions, Edward Conway — ” 

“Not Conway — Morton, Cunuingham ! — anything but Con 
way !” 

A smile of scorn passed over the lips of Clarence. 

“ I thank you for your correction,” he said. “ But this is a 
small matter. To return. My passions and enmities are scarcely 
less active than yours ; but I would forego their enjoyment be- 
cause of my greater responsibilities. I now make you an offer. 
Let us not fight ; and you shall go free. I will facilitate your 
progress to Charleston — nay, insure it — and you will then be 
enabled, unencumbered by the villanous banditti to which you 
have been attached, to fly the country. I know that you have 
a large booty stored away in Jamaica — enough to give you 
competence for life. Let that suffice you. Leave the country 
while the chance is allowed you — while you may do so in safe- 
ty. Three weeks hence, and Greene will traverse all this re- 
gion !” 

“Fool fancies!” exclaimed the other rudely. “Those are 
Rawdon’s trumpets.” 

“You will not long hear them, except sounding the retreat. 
The war is well nigh over.” 

« Pshaw ! this is mere folly. We came here to fight, I think. 
The sooner the better ! Come on !” 

“ I would save you — spare you !” 

“I shall not spare you ! Your conceit is insufferable, and 
shall be whipped out of you, by heavens ! this very night. 
Come on, then ; I long to give or take my quittance. Your 
head is turned by love for a woman. Your Flora, my Flore 


218 


THE SCOUT. 


— the Flora of Congaree — you have been Irppmg, nave you? 
-and you like the taste — sweet flavor ! — ” 

“Ruffian — wretch]” cried Clarence, with a fury that seemed 
as little governable now as that of the outlaw, “ you are doomed. 
1 can not spare you now.” 

“ I ask you not. Let the steel speak for both of us. Mine 
has been blushing at the time you have consumed in prating. 
Come (n — come on! Strike as if your heart were in it, Clar- 
ence Conway, for, by God’s death, I will have it in your heart, 
if hell has not grown deaf to human prayer. Good blade, to 
your work ! It is some pleasure, Clarence Conway, to know 
that yours is tolerably pure blood — at least it will do no dis- 
honor to my dagger.” 

The struggle followed instantaneously. The outlaw pro- 
reeded to act his declared intentions. His object seemed to be 
to get within the arm of his opponent — to close at all hazards, 
and sacrifice himself in the bloody determination to destroy his 
enemy. 

But Clarence was no ordinary foe. His anger did not deprive 
him of his coolness, and his skill with the weapon was far be- 
yond that of most men of his time. Still, it required all his 
watchfulness and circumspection — all his readiness of eye and 
arm — to baffle the purpose of the other. The blind fury of 
the outlaw, perhaps, served him quite as effectually as did his 
own resources. It made him fearless, but not fearful — full of 
purposes of dangers, but not dangerous — that is, comparatively 
speaking — for, so long as the partisan preserved his composure, 
and kept only on the defensive, his enemy did not find it so 
certainly true as he had affirmed, that a desperate man always 
carries the life of his enemy at the point of his dagger. He 
had tried this more than once, and had always been repelled 
sometimes with hurts, which were not always slight, though, as 
yet, in no case dangerous. 

His constant failure warned him of the folly of his own fury, 
ana its utter ineffectiveness to achieve the object of his desires. 
He recovered himself, and adopted another policy. He renewed 
those coarse sneers and insinuations which had been always 
effectual in provoking Clarence, and which had closed their 


THE COMbi, THr bftOTHERS 21 

previous conference. He spoke of Flora Middleton, and m such 
language as was admirably calculated to throw a lover off hie 
guard. 

“ You flatter yourself,” lie said, “ that you have just mad« * 
conquest; but have you asked its value? I tell you, Clarence 
Conway, if ever woman spoke falsely, Flora Middleton spoke 
falsely to you when she consented to be yours. I know her . 
nay, man, when you charged me with having been to Briei 
Park, you knew but half the truth. Shall I tell you that she 
was then as indulgent to the chief of the Black Riders as she 
has been since to his more moral kinsman ? Here, by this old 
vault, did he walk with her at evening ; and you know what it 
is, or you should know, to wander among dim groves at sunset 
with a romantic damsel. The heart will yield then, if ever. It 
softens with the hour, and melts. Ha ! are you touched — 
touched at last ? Know, then, it was my turn to lip and to taste 
as cordially — ” 

“Liar! dog! reptile!” cried Clarence, striking at him furi- 
ously as he heard these words ; “ Know I not that you have 
striven to fill her pure ears with falsehoods almost as foul uj 
those you would now thrust into mine ?” 

“You have it !” cried the other, Avitli a yell of delight, as hia 
lunge carried the point of his dagger into the breast of the parti- 
san ; fortunately a flesh-wound only, but one in dangerous prox- 
imity to the angry heart that was now boiling in its neighbor- 
hood. The youth felt his imprudence ; but if he had not, there 
was a counselling friend at hand, who did not suffer him to gc 
unreminded. This was Jack Bannister, who, in the shelter of 
a tree contiguous, to which he had crawled unseen, had been a 
spectator of the brief conflict, during the short time it had lasted 
on the outside of the vault. 

“ Don’t you let him fool you, Clarence ; he’s only trying to 
make you mad — that’s his trick. But don’t you mind him- - 
lie’s a born liar, and if you stick as you should, he’ll die with a 
lie in his mouth. Strike away, Clarence, as you can strike ; 
and only forget that you ever had a father who was so foolish 
as to git a son of the wrong breed. Put it to him, and shut 
up your nater till it’s all done. God ha’ mercy ’pon me, but 


THE SCOUT. 


223 

t c 3 6:213 so nateral for me now to want to put in and kill 
him !” 

“Bis! you have brought your bullies upon me! ’’.were the 
words of Morton, as the first accents of Bannister reached his 
ears. “But T fear them not!” — and he renewed the assault 
with increased determination ; if that indeed were possible. 

“Keep back — meddle not, John Bannister!” cried Clarence. 
“ I need no assistance.” 

“ I know it, Clarence ; but, Lord love you ! don’t git into a 
foolish passion. Go to it as ef ’twas a common work you was 
a-doing — splitting rails, or digging ditches, or throwing up po- 
tato-hills. Jest you hit and stick as ef you was a-managing a 
dug-out, or a raft, or some sicli foolish consarn. For sich a foul- 
mouth as lie to talk agin Miss Flora ! Why, it’s as foolish as a 
wolf to bark at the moonlight. But don’t let me interrupt you. 
Go to it ! I’m jest a-looking on to see the eend, and obsarve 
hair play ; -only make haste, Clarence ; shut him up as soon as 
vou can, for the bugle’s a sounding from the head of the avenue, 
and there’s little time to lose.” 

The warning was not to be disregarded, and Clarence Con- 
way soon brought the strife to an issue. The resumption of his 
caution provoked the outlaw into a renewal of his rashness, and 
his dagger-hand was caught in the grasp of the partisan at the 
same moment when the weapon of the other sunk into his breast. 
Clarence relaxed his hold upon his victim the instant that the 
blow was delivered Ho fancied that he had given him the 
coup de grace as he intended ; and a strange, keen, sudden Jiang 
rushed like lightning through bis own bosom. 

The outla'.v, meanwhile, felt himself about to fall. A faint- 
ness covered his frame ; bis sight was growing dark ; and, with 
the last convulsive moment of reflection, he threw himself for- 
ward upon the breast of his enemy, whose dagger-point was now 
turned toward trie ground. His left arm was tightly^ clasped 
about the form of Clarence ; while his right, with all the remain- 
ing consciousness of his mind, and the concentrated, but fast 
failing vigor of his frame, addressed a blow at the heart of the 
latter, which it needed sufficient strength only to render fatal. 

But the arm of the outlaw sank down in the effort ere the 


CAPRICES OF FORTUNE. 


22: 


dagger reached its mark. Ilis hold upon his enemy was in 
stantly relaxed, and he fell fainting at the feet of Clarence, ere 
the latter had sufficiently recovered from the horror which he 
felt, to be altogether conscious of the danger from which lie had 
escaped. With every justification for the deed which necessity 
could bring, he yet felt how full of pain and sorrow, if not of 
crime, was the shedding of a brother’s blood. 


CHAPTER XX. 

CAPRICES OF FORTUNE. 

We have omitted, in the proper place, to record certain events 
that happened, during the progress of the conflict, in order that 
nothing should retard the narrative of that event. But, ere it 
had reached its termination, and while its results were in some 
measure doubtful, a new party came upon the scene, who de- 
serves our attention, and commanded that of the faithful wood- 
man. A cry — a soft but piercing cry- -unheard by either of 
the combatants, first drew the eyes of the former to the neigh 
boring wood from which it issued ; and, simultaneously, a slen- 
der form darted out of the cover, and hurried forward in the 
direction of the strife. Bannister immediately put himself in 
readiness to prevent any interference between the parties ; and, 
when he saw the stranger pushing forward, and wielding a glit- 
tering weapon in his grasp, as he advanced, he rushed from his 
own concealment, and threw himself directly in the pathway of 
the intruder. The stranger recoiled for an instant, while Ban- 
nister commanded him to stand. 

“ Back \ v said the latter, “ back, my lad, till it’s all over. It 
won’t be long now, I warrant you. They’ll soon finish it ; but 
until they’ve done ” 

He drew a pistol from his belt, which he cocked, presented, 
and thus closed the sentence. The stranger shrunk back at 
ibis sudden and sturdy interruption; but, recovering a moment 


222 


THE SCOUT. 


after, appeared determined to press forward. The second warn 
ing of the scout was more imperative than the first. 

“Stand back, I tell you!” cried the resolute woodman, “oi 
by blazes, I’ll send daylight and moonlight both through you 
with an ounce bullet. I ain’t trifling with you, stranger ; be 
sartin, I’m serious enough when I take pistol in hand. Back. I 
tell you, till the tug’s over, and then you may see and be seen 
Move another step and I’ll flatten you.” 

“No, no, no!” was the incoherent response; “let me pass! 
I will pass !” 

The sounds which assured the woodman of the determination 
of the stranger, were so faintly and breathlessly articulated, 
that, at any other time, Jack Bannister would have only laughed 
at the oboticate purpose which they declared ; but the moment 
was t;o p:\xious for his friend, and he was too earnest in secu- 
ring fair play for all parties, not to regard their tenor rather than 
their tone. 

“Ify ou do, I’ll shoot you, as sure as a gun !” was his answer. 

“They will kill him !” murmured the stranger, in accents of 
utter despondency. lie struck his head with his palm in a 
manner of the deepest wo ; then, as if seized with a new impulse, 
waved a dagger in the air, and darted upon the woodman. 

So sudden was the movement and unexpected, that Bannister 
never thought to shoot, but, clubbing his pistol, he dealt the as- 
sailant a blow upon the skull, which laid him prostrate. A faint 
cry escaped the lips of the youth in falling ; and Bannister fan- 
cied that his own name formed a part of its burden. He was 
also surprised when he recollected that the enemy, though rush- 
ing on him with a dagger, had yet forborne to use it, although 
sufficient opportunity had been allowed him to do so, had such 
been his purpose, in the surprise occasioned by his first onslaught. 
But the moment was not one favorable to reflection. Clarence 
had now overcome his enemy, who was prostrate and insensible ; 
and, faint himself, was bending over him in a fruitless effort to 
stanch the blood which issued from a deep wound on the side. 
Bannister approached him with the inquiry — 

“ God be thanked, Clarence, that you are uppermost. How 
is it with him ? Is lie dead 


CAPRICES OE FORTUNE. 223 

“ I hope not. He breathes still. There is notion in his 
heart.” 

“ I’m sorry for it, Clarence. I ain’t sorry that you ha’n’t 
killed him, for I’d rather you shouldn’t do it ; but I’m mighty 
sorry lie s not dead. It’ll be all the better for him if he is. 
’T would save a neck smooth to the last. But come, there’s a 
great stir at the house. I can hear the voices.” 

“But we can not leave him here, Jack. Something must be 
done for him. Would to God I had never seen him, for T feel 
most wretched, now that it’s all over.” 

“ ’Tain’t a time to feel such feelings. You couldn’t help it, 
Clarence. He would force it upon you. Didn’t I hear him 
myself? But it’s no use talking here. We must brush up and 
be doing. I’ve given a knock to a chap here, that’s laid him 
out as quiet as you laid the other. A small chap he was. I 
might have stopped him, I’m thinking, with a lighter hand > 
but I hadn’t time to think, he jumped so spry upon me.” 

“ Who is he ?” demanded Clarence. 

“ I don’t know ; a friend to Edward Conway, looking after 
him, I reckon. I’ll see all about him directly, when once you’re 
off. But you must trot at once. There’s a mighty stir all 
about the house, and I’m thinking, more than once, that I’ve 
hearn a whoo-whoop-halloo, below thar in the direction of the 
flats. ’Twas a mighty suspicious sort of whoop for an owl to 
make, and I’m jub’ous ’twa’n’t one that had a good schoolmaster. 
’Twa’n’t altogether nateral.” 

“ What are we to do with him ?” demanded Clarence, as he 
gazed with an aspect of complete bewilderment, now at the body 
of his kinsman, and now at the distant mansion. 

“ Do ! I take it, it’s jest the reasonable time to hearken to 
the words of scripter : ‘ Let the dead bury their dead ;’ and 
though I can’t exactly see how they’re to set about it, yet, when 
people’s hard pushed as we are, it’s very well to put upon holy 
book all such difficult matters as we can’t lay straight by our 
own hands. I’m thinking, we’d best lay him quietly in the 
vault and leave him.” 

“ But he’s not dead, Bannister, and with care might recover.” 

“ More’s the pity It’s belter for you and me, and himself 


224 


THE SCOUT. 


too, if he don't recover ; and it seems to me very onnateral that 
you should take pains first to put him to death, and the next 
moment worry yourself to bring him to life again.” 

“ I took no such pains, Bannister. I would not have struck 
him if I could have avoided the necessity, and I strove tr 
avoid making his wounds fatal.” 

“ I’m sorry for that agin. But this ain’t no time for palavei- 
ing. You’ll soon have these dragoons of Coffin scouring the 
grounds of the barony, aud It a wd on’s too good a soldier not to 
have his scouts out for three good miles round it. Them tram 
pets that we hear are talking some such language now; and we 
must ride pretty soon, or we’ll be in a swamp, the waters rising, 
t lie dug-out gone, and a mighty thick harricane growing in the 
west.” 

“ I can not think of leaving the body thus, Bannister.” 

“ And you resk your own body and sold — or your own body, 
which is pretty much the soul of the ‘ Oongaree Blues’ — ef you 
stop to take care of him,” replied the woodman. 

“ What are we to do V’ 

“ Clarence, trust to me. Take your horse — you’ll find him 
in that hollow — and get to the head of the troop before Coffin’s 
hoofs tread upon its tail. I’ll be mighty soon after you ; but 
before I start, I’ll give ’em a blast of my horn, and a scare from 
my puppy-dog here” — meaning his pistol — “ which ’ll be pretty 
sure to bring a dozen of ’em on my track. When they come 
here, they’ll find the body of Edward Conway, and this lad 
tliat I flattened ; and they can do for ’em all that’s needful. 
I'm a hoping that this here person,” pointing to the chief of the 
Black Eiders, “ is out of his misery for ever, and won’t trouble 
the surgeont with much feeling of his hurts. As for the other 
lad, I don’t think I could lia’ hurt, him much with the butt only, 
though I struck him mighty quick, and without axing how 
much or how little he could stand. Trust to me, Clarence, and 
go ahead.” 

Obviously, this was the only course to be pursued in order to 
reconcile the duties and desires which the partisan entertained. 
He took not a single further look at his enemy, whose grim and 
ghastly features, turned upward in the moonlight, presented an 


CAPRICES OF FORTUNE. 


225 


Aspec/ tar more fearful than any which the simple appearance 
of death could present ; and, with a few words of parting direc- 
tion to the woodman, he hurried away to the hollow where his 
horse had been concealed. In a few moments after, the sturdy 
Bannister rejoiced, as his ear caught the slow movement of his 
departing hoofs. 

The bold fellow then — before putting his design in execution, 
of alarming the British at the mansion and bringing them down 
upon the spot — true to the business of the scout, stole forward 
in the direction of the dwelling, in order to ascertain what he 
could, as to the disposition and strength of the force which had 
come and was still advancing. A perfect knowledge of the 
place, its points of retreat and places of shelter, enabled him 
to reach a station where he saw quite as much as he desired. 
The cavalry, a small body of men, were evidently drawn up as 
a guard along the avenue, for the reception of the commander- 
in-chief ; and while Bannister admired their array, and noted 
the stealthy caution which marked their movements, he was 
also enable to count their numbers with tolerable certainty. 

“ More than they told me,” he muttered to himself ; “ but a 
good ambushment will make up the difference, by thinning then) 
a little.” 

Having satisfied his curiosity, and perceiving that the main 
body of the British army was at hand, he contented himself with 
observing, with soldierly admiration, the fine appearance of the 
Troops — a body consisting chiefly of the Irish regiments, then 
newly arrived from Europe — and the excellent order of their 
march ; and then stole away, as quietly as he approached, to 
the place where he had left the wounded. 

Returning with as stealthy a movement as at his departure, 
he was surprised to discover that tho c cdy of the stranger whom 
he had knocked down was no longer where he had left it. A 
considerable curiosity filled his bosom to discover who this per 
son was. His. conduct had been romewhat singular; and Ban- 
nister was almost sure, that when he inflicted the blow which 
had laid him prostrate, the stranger had uttered his own name 
in falling ; and that, too, in tones which were neither strange 
nor those of an enemy. His first impression was mat mis per* 


2*20 


THE SCOUT. 


son had feigned unconsciousness, but liad taken advantage of 
his momentary absence to steal off into the contiguous woods 
To seek him there under present circumstances, and with so 
little time as was allowed him, would be an idle attempt; and 
the woodman, with some disappointment, turned once more to 
the spot where the outlaw was lying. 

To his surprise, he found a second person with him, whom a 
nearer glance discovered to be the very person whose absence 
he had regretted. The stranger was lying upon the body of 
Edward Morton, and seemingly as lifeless as himself: but he 
started up when he heard the footsteps of Bannister, and made 
a feeble attempt to rise from the ground, but fell forward with 
an expression of pain, and once more lay quiescent upon the 
body of the outlaw. 

The scout drew nigh and addressed the youth with an accent 
of excessive kindness ; for the milk of a gentle as well as a 
generous nature, flowing in his heart from the beginning, had 
not been altogether turned by the cruel necessities of the war- 
fare in which he was engaged. But, though he spoke the kind- 
est words of consolation and encouragement known to Ins vocab- 
ulary, and in the kindest tones, lie received no answer. The 
youth lay in a condition of equal stillness with him whose body 
he seemed resolved to cover with his own. 

Bannister readily conceived that he had swooned. He ad- 
vanced accordingly, stooped down, and turned the face to the 
moonlight. It was a fair face and very pale, except where two 
livid streaks were drawn by the now clotted blood, which had 
escaped from beneath the black fur cap which he wore. This, 
upon examination, the scout found to be cut by the pistol-blow 
which he had given ; and it was with a shivering sensation of 
horror, to him very unusual, that, when he pressed lightly with 
his finger upon the skull below, it felt soft and pulpy. 

“Lord forgive me !” was the involuntary ejaculation of the 
woodman — “Lord forgive me, if I have hit the poor lad too. 
hard a blow.” 

His annoyance increased as he beheld the slight and slender 
person of the youth. 

“ There was no n iedeessity to use the pistol, poor fellow. A fist 


CAPRICES OF FORTUNE. 


227 


blow would have been enough to have kept him quiet” — and, 
muttering thus at intervals, he proceeded to untie the strings 
which secured the cap to the head of the stranger. These were 
fastened below the chin ; and, in his anxiety and haste, the 
woodman, whose fingers may readily be supposed to have been 
better fitted for any less delicate business, contrived to run the 
slip into a knot, which his hunting knife was finally employed 
to separate. 

The cap was removed ; and in pressing the hair hack from 
the wound, he was surprised at its smooth, silk-like fineness and 
unusual length. This occasioned his increased surprise ; and 
when, looking more closely, he saw in the fair light of the moon, 
the high narrow white forehead in connection with the other fea- 
tures of the face, a keen and painful conjecture passed through 
his mind, and with tremulous haste and a convulsive feeling of 
apprehension, he tore open the jacket of dismal sable which the 
unconscious person wore, and the whole mournful truth flashed 
upon his soul. 

“ God lia* mercy, it is a woman ! — it is she — it is poor Mary 
Mary — Mary Clarkson ! Open your eyes, Mary, and look up. 
Don’t be scared — it’s a friend — it’s me, Jack Bannister ! Your 
old friend, your father’s friend. God ha’ mercy ! She don’t 
see, she don’t hear — she can’t speak. If I should ha’ hit too 
hard ! if I should ha’ hit too hard.” 

The anxiety of the honest fellow as he addressed the uncon- 
scious victim of his own unmeditated blow would be indescriba- 
ble. He sat down on the sward and took her head into his lap, 
and clasped her brows, and laid his ear to her heart to feel its 
beatings, and when, with returning consciousness, she murmured 
a few incoherent words, his delight was that of one frantic. 

He now laid her down tenderly, and ran off to a little spring 
which trickled from the foot of the hill, with the position of 
which he was well acquainted. A gourd hung upon the slender 
bough of a tree that spread above the basin. This he hastily 
scooped full of water, and ran hack to the unfortunate girl. She 
had somewhat recovered during his absence — sufficiently to 
know that some one was busy in the work of restoration and 
kindness, 


228 


THE SCOUT. 


“No, no,” she muttered, “mind not me — -go to him — him! 
Save him before they kill him.” 

“ Him, indeed ! No ! Let him wait. He can afford to do it, 
for I reckon it’s all over with him. But you, Mary, dear Mary : 
tell me, Mary, that you are not much hurt — tell me that you 
know me; it was I who hurt you; I — your old friend, John 
Bannister, Mary ; but it’s a God’s truth, I didn’t know you then. 
I’d ha’ cut off my right arm first, Mary, before it should ever 
have given pain to you.” 

“Leave me, if you have mercy — I don’t want your help; 
you can’t help me — no! no! Go to him. He will bleed to 
death while you are talking.” 

“ Don’t tell me to leave you, Mary ; and don’t trouble your- 
self about him. He’ll have all the help he needs — all he de- 
sarves ; but you ! look up, dear Mary, and tell me if you know 
me. I am still your friend, Mary — your father’s friend.” 

The mention of her father seemed to increase her sufferings. 

“ No ! no ! — not that !” — she muttered bitterly ; and writhing 
about with an effort that seemed to exhaust all her remaining 
strength, she turned her face upon the ground, where she lay 
insensible. 

Never was mortal more miserable or more bewildered than 
our worthy scout. He now suffered from all the feelings, the 
doubt and indecision, which had beset his commander but a little 
while before. To remain was to risk being made a prisoner ; 
yet to leave the poor victim of his own random blow, in her 
present condition, was as painful to his own sense of humanity 
as it was unendurable by that tender feeling which, as we have 
already intimated, possessed his heart in an earlier day for the 
frail victim of another’s perfidy. This feeling her subsequent 
dishonor had not wholly obliterated ; and he now gazed with a 
sort of stupid sorrow upon the motionless form before him, until 
li/s big, slow gathering tears fell thick upon her neck, which his 
arm partially sustained ; while his fingers turned over the long 
silken hair, portions of which were matted with her blood, in 
a manner which betrayed something r.f a mental self-abandon 
meet — a total forgetfulness of duty and prudence — on the part 
of one of the hardiest scouts in the whole Congarec country. 


CAPRICES OF FORTUNE. 


229 


How long h» might have lingered in this purposeless manner, 
had not an interruption, from without, awakened him to a more 
resolute, if a less humane course, may not he conjectured. In 
that moment the resources of the strong man were sensibly di- 
minished. The hopes and loves of his early youth were busy at 
his heart. Memory was going over her tears and treasures, and 
wounds which had been scarred by time and trial were all sud- 
denly reopened. 

In this musing vein lib half forgot the near neighborhood of 
his enemies, and the dangers which awaited him in the event of 
captivity. These were dangers, be it remembered, of no com- 
mon kind. It was not then the mere prospect of restraint which 
threatened the rebel if taken prisoner. The sanguinary rage of 
party had to be pacified with blood ; and it is strongly probable 
that the merciless executions of which the British commanders 
were so frequently guilty in the south, were sometimes prompted 
by a desire to conciliate the loyalists, of the same region, who 
had personal enmities to gratify, and personal revenges to wreak, 
which could be satisfied in scarcely any other way. 

Of these dangers the- sturdy woodman was made most unex- 
pectedly conscious by hearing the tones and language of military 
command immediately behind him. A guard was evidently ap- 
proaching, sentinels were about to be placed, and the sounds 
which startled him on one side were echoed and strangely" an- 
swered by a sudden clamor of a most unmilitary character 
which rose, at nearly the same instant, from the swamps and 
flats which lay along the river a few hundred yards below. 

Mary Clarkson could have explained the mystery of the lat- 
ter noises, were she conscious enough to hear ; but such was not 
the case. Her consciousness was momentary ; and when obvi- 
ous, betrayed itself in expressions which now denoted a wander- 
ing intellect. 

A stern agony filled the heart of the scout as he rose to his 
feet, lifted her tenderly in his arms, and bore her toward the 
tomb, before the entrance of which he laid her gently down, in 
a spot which he knew would make her conspicuous to the eyes 
of the first person approaching. lie had barely disengaged her 
from his arms, and was still bending over her with a last look, 


230 


THE SCOUT. 


the expression of which, though unseen by any, spoke more 
effectually the anguish which he felt, than could ever have been 
conveyed by the rude and simple language of his lips, when he 
felt a hand upon his shoulder — a quick, firm grasp — followed 
by the sounds of a voice, which it soon appeared that he knew. 

“ Oh ! ho ! Caught at last, Supple Jack ; Supple, the fa 
mous ! Your limbs will scarcely help you now. You are my 
prisoner.” 

“Not so fast, Watson Gray — I know you !” replied the scout, 
as he started to his feet and made an effort to turn ; but his en- 
emy had grappled him from behind, had pinioned his arms by a 
grasp from limbs as full of muscle as his own, and was, in fact, 
fairly mounted upon his back. 

“And feel me too, Jack Bannister, I think. There’s no get- 
ting loose, my boy, and your only way is to keep quiet. There 
are twenty Hessians at my back to help me, and as many Irish.” 

“More than enough, Watson Gray, for a poor Congaree boat 
man; But you’re rcther vent’rous, I’m thinking, to begin the 
attack. You ought to ha’ waited for a little more help, Watson 
Gray. You’re rather a small build of a man, if my memory 
sarves me lightly — you ha’n’t half of my heft, and can’t surely 
think to manage me.” 

“I do, indeed!” was the answer. “ If I’m light, you’ll find 
me strong — strong enough to keep your arms fast till my wild 
Irish come up, and lay you backward.” 

“Well, that may be, Watson. But my arms ain’t my legs, 
my lad. Keep them, if you can.” 

Thus speaking, greatly to the surprise of the assailant, he 
grasped the enclasping arms of the latter with his muscular fin 
gers, held tlem with a hold as unyielding as their own. ard 
rising erect, set off, at a smart canter down the hill in the dire*: 
tion of the river. This proceeding was one which had formed 
no part of Watson Gray’s calculations; and lie became sud- 
denly and awkwardly aware that there was an unpleasant change 
in the relations of the parties. 

“ The boot’s on t’other leg, I’m thinking, Watson Gray,’' 
chuckled our scout of Congaree. To this offensive suggestion 
the other had no answer, in words ; but lie employed all hi* 


CAPRICES OF FORTUNE. 


231 


breath ami effort with the view to extricating himself from the 
biped whose shoulders he had so indiscreetly mounted. But the 
performance and the desire, are notoriously very different things. 
In spite of all his struggles, Jack Bannister kept on his way 
down hill, and Watson Gray, perforce, kept in his uneasy place 
of elevation. He had not calculated all the resources of his 
great antagonist, and now cursed himself for his overweening 
confidence in his own. 

“ It’s but nateral that you should kick and worry, at riding 
a nag that you ha’n’t bitted, Watson Gray, but it’s of no use ; 
you’re fairly mounted, and there’s no getting off in a hurry,” was 
the consoling language of the scout as he ran toward the wood 
with his captive. “ I see that you never beam of the danger 
of shaking hands with a black bear. The danger is that you 
can’t let go when you want to. A black bear is so civil an 
animal, that he never likes to give up a good acquaintance, and 
he’ll hold on, paw for paw with you, and rubbing noses when 
be can, though it’s the roughest tree in the swamp that stands 
up between him and his friend. Your arms and shoulders, I 
reckon, are jist as good and strong as mine. But your body 
ain’t got the weight, and I could carry you all day, on a pinch, 
and never feel the worse for it. You see how easy we go to- 
gether !” 

“ D — n you, for a cunning devil,” cried the embarrassed 
Gray, kicking and floundering curiously, but vainly striving to 
get loose. 

“ Don’t you curse, Watson Gray ; — it sort o’ makes you feel 
heavier on my quarters.” 

** Let me down, Bannister, and you may go free, and to the 
devil where you cane from.” 

“ Well, you’re too good. You’ll let me go free? — I’m think- 
ing that it’s you that’s my prisoner, my boy. I’ll parole you as 
soon as I reach my critter.” 

“ I’ll shout to the Hessians to shoot you as you run,” vocif 
erated the other. 

“ Will you, then. You don't consider that your back will 
first feel the bullets. You’re a cunning man, Watson Gray. 
I’ve always said you were about the best scout I know’d in the 


232 


THE SCOUT. 


whole Congaree country, and it’s a long time since we’ve been 
dodging after one another. I was a little jub’ous, I confess, that 
you were a better man than myself. I was : but you made a 
poor fist of this business — a poor pair of fists, I may say,” con- 
cluded the woodman with a chuckle. 

“ So I did — a d — d poor business of it!” groaned the other 
“ I should have put my knife into your ribs, or had the scouts 
round you first.” 

“ The knife’s a bad business, Watson,” w T as the reply of the 
other ; — “a good scout, that’s not onnatural, never uses it when 
less hurtful things will answer. But it’s true you should ha’ 
put your Hessians between me and the woods before you cried 
out ‘ you’re my prisoner !’ If ever a man jumps into detarmina- 
tion at all, it’s jist when he hears some such ugly words, on a 
sudden, in his ears ; and when I felt you, riding so snugly on 
my back, I know’d I had you, and could ha’ sworn it.” 

A desperate effort to effect his release, which Watson Gray 
made at this time, put a stop to the complacent speech of the 
other, and made him less indulgent. 

“ I’ll cure your kicking, my lad,” said he, as, backing himself 
against a pine-tree, he subjected his involuntary burden to a 
succession of the hardest thumps which he C'Uild inflict upon 
him, by driving his body with all its force against the incorrigi- 
ble and knotty giant of the forests. The gasping of the cap- 
tive, which ensued, sufficiently attested the success of this 
measure ; and an attempt which Gray made, a moment or two 
after, to get the ear of Supple Jack within his teeth — which 
was answered by a butt that almost ruined his whole jaw — ter- 
minated the fruitless endeavors of the former to free himself 
from his awkward predicament. 

Meanwhile, the stir and confusion were increasing behind the 
fugitives, and it was a wonder to both that they had not been 
pursued. The sounds, imperfectly heard by the woodman, 
seemed to be those of actual conflict ; but be felt himself secure, 
and his thoughts reverted, over all, to the peer Mary Clarkson 
— the victim of the outlaw with whom she had been left, and, 
perhaps, his own victim. The poor fellow regarded himself with 
horror when he thought of the cruel blow his hand had inflicted, 


CAPRICES OF FORTUNE. 


233 


But lie had no time for these reflections ; and the necessity 
of joining his commander, nerved him to new vigo; in his prog- 
ress. He had now reached the place where his horse was con- 
cealed. His first movement was to pitch his captive over his 
head ; which he did very unexpectedly to the latter. In the 
next moment, his knee was upon his breast, and with pistol 
presented to his mouth, he made Watson Gray surrender his 
weapons. These consisted only of two hunting knives, and an 
ordinary pocket pistol. He then rifled his pockets of all which 
they contained, kept his papers, but generously restored his money. 

“ Now, Watson Gray, you’re a Congaree man, like myself, 
and ef I’ve thumped you a little hard as we run, put it down 
to the needeessity of the case and not because I wanted to hurt 
you. I’ll let you off now, on your parole, that you may go 
back and help Ned Conway. You’ve been his helper and ad- 
viser a mighty long time, and you’ve done for him a precious 
deal of ugly business. He’ll need more help now, I’m thinking, 
than you can give him. There’s a poor boy there — too — a 
young slender chap, that I hit with a’most too heavy a hand, 
I'm afeard, and if you can do anything for her ” 

“ Her!” said the other. 

“ Oh, yes — the truth-will out — she’s a gal though in no gal’s 
clothes. Perhaps you know her. You ought to- -you know 
enough of Ned Conway’s wickedness to know that. Take care 
of that gal, Watson Gray, andoif physic can do her good, see 
that she gets it. I ax it of you as a favor. You’re a stout 
fellow, Watson, and I’ve long tried to have a turn with you. 
I’m thinking you’re a better scout than I am ; but there’s no 
discredit to you to say that you want my heft and' timbers. In 
a close tug I’m your master ; but I ’in jub’ous you’d work through 
a swamp better than me. See to that gal, Watson, for the sake 
of that Congaree country. She’s one of our own children, I 
may say, seeing we’re both from the liver; — and if there’s any 
cost that you’re at, in helping her, either for food or physic, let 
me know of it, and you shall have it paid back to you, ef I dig 
the gold out of some inemy’s heart. Good by, now, Watson, 
and remember you must never take a bear by the paws till 
you’ve first made tarms with him about letting go.” 


23 < 


THE SCOUT. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

PROGRESS AND SUSPENSE. 

“Was ever poor devil caught so completely in his own trap 
before !” was the querulous exclamation of Watson Gray, as, 
with a painful effort, he rose from the ground where his adver- 
sary had so ungcntly stretched him out. “ Egad, I’m sore all 
over ; though I think there’s no bone broken !” He rubbed his 
arms and thighs while he spoke, with an anxious earnestness 
which showed that he spoke in all sincerity, though still with 
some doubt whether his limbs preserved their integrity. 

“ Confound the scamp ! I thought I had him sure. His arms 
fastened, his back turned ! — wlio’d have thought of such a can- 
ter down hill with a strong man over his shoulders ! Well, he 
certainly deserves the name of Supple Jack! He’s earned it 
fairly by this bout, if he never did before. If ever fellow was 
strong and supple over all the men I ever knew, he’s the man. 
But for those sleepy Hessians, I’d have had him ; and I wonder 
what can keep them now. The dull, drowsy, beef-eyed Dutch- 
men — what the d — 1 are they after] What stir’s that]” 

A buzz of many voices in earnest controversy, in the direction 
of the vault, arrested the speaker in his soliloquy, and stimulated 
his apprehensions. 

“ By Jupiter ! they’re fighting among themselves ! What 
an uproar! They’re are loggerheads, surely — the Hessian 
boobies !” 

The anxiety of the scout made him half forgetful of his 
bruises as he turned toward the spot from whence the clamor 
rose. There seemed sufficient cause to justify the aj prehensions 
which he had expressed. The uproar which first startled him 
was followed by oaths, execrations, and finally the clash of arms. 
He hurried forward to the scene of the uproar, and arrived not 
a moment too soon to prevent bloodshed. It will be necessary 


PROGRESS AND SUSPENSE. 


235 


that we should retrace our steps for a while in order to ascertain 
the causes of the present commotion. 

It will be remembered that Mary Clarkson left the bivouac of 
the Black Eiders at the very time when, going through the 
bloody ceremonial of pledging themselves to one another for the 
performance of a new crime, they led her to suppose that they 
would very shortly follow upon her footsteps. This, to a certain 
extent, was, indeed, the fact. They followed her, but not so 
soon as she expected ; and she reached the miserable man for 
whom she had sacrificed the life of woman’s life, in full time to 
have forewarned him of tlicir approach and purpose, had this, 
under the circumstances, been eilraer necessary or possible. We 
have already seen what those circumstances were ; and the cruel 
insults which followed her unselfish devotion to a creature so 
little deserving the care of any heart. The chief of the outlaws 
had already fallen beneath the arm of his kinsman. 

The Black Eiders had still some arrangements to make — 
some stimulating liquors to quaff, and purposes to fulfil scarcely 
less stimulating —before they started for the work of treachery 
and murder. One of these arrangements was the elevation of 
Stockton to the chief command, as if Morton were already dead. 
Ensign Darcy, by a natural transition, and as a becoming reward 
for his good service, was promoted at the same time to the sta- 
tion which the other had so lately filled. 

Morton had his friends among the banditti, who simply sub- 
mitted to proceedings which thay could not baffle, and openly 
dared not resist. They, however, held themselves in reserve, 
with a mental determination to defeat, if possible, the dark pur- 
poses of their companions before they could possibly carry them 
out to completion. But this determination was ineffective for 
the time, simply because it was individual in each man’s bosom. 
They had had no opportunity allowed them for deliberation, 
and, being half suspected of lukewarmness, they were not suf- 
fered to get together unwatched and unobserved by the domi- 
nant faction. 

Elated with his success, the arrogant Stockton fancied that 
the path of the future was fairly open before his steps, unembar- 
rassed by all obstructions, and the smiles of good fortune beck’ 


236 


THE SCOUT. 


oning him to the conquest. There was but one task before him 
necessary to render all things easy, and that a malignant senti- 
ment of hate goaded him on to perform. The murder of Edward 
Morton — his personal enemy — the man who knew his secret 
baseness, and who scorned him in consequence — was yet to be 
executed ; and this — when he thought of the past, its bitterness 
and contumely — of the future, its doubts and dangers — became 
a task of grateful personal performance. To this task, when all 
the ceremonials were over, of his own and confederate’s eleva- 
tion, he accordingly hurried. 

His men were soon put in readiness, and Darcy, who had 
traversed the ground more than once before, took charge of the 
advance. Their plans were simple, but sufficient, had the cir- 
cumstances continued throughout as they were at the beginning. 
They had meditated to advance upon, and to surround the man- 
sion, in which they supposed their captain to be; then, raising 
the cry of “ Sumter,” create an alarm, in the confusion of which 
Morton was to be put to death. 

It need not be said that the unexpected approach of a British 
army, under a forced march, and without any of the usual bruit 
attending on the progress of a large body of men, utterly baffled 
all their calculations ; and when, following the path toward the 
tomb, which Morton had originally taken, Lieutenant Darcy 
arrived at the spot, he found it almost in complete possession of 
soldiery, consisting of the very Hessians — some twenty in num- 
ber — on the assistance of whom Watson Gray had so confidently 
calculated when he made the rash attempt on the person of 
Jack Bannister. 

The Hessian troops had never before been seen by the Black 
Riders, and Darcy immediately jumped to the conclusion that 
these were partisan troops of Lee’s legion, which he knew had, 
a little time before, been seen in the neighborhood ; and the 
conjecture was a natural one, not only that they might be there 
itill, but that Morton might already have become their captive. 
The incautious movement of these soldiers suggested to Darcy, 
who was not without his ambition, the project of capturing the 
whole of them. They were evidently as careless of danger, a& 
if they had never known what apprehension was ; and finding 


PROGRESS AND SUSPENSE. 


237 


them squatting around some object near the tomb, busy ir low 
discussion, the next most natural conjecture, to one of his ma- 
rauding habits, was, that they had already rifled the mansion, 
and were now sharing its plunder. 

The cupidity of the habitual robber rendered his judgment 
easy of access to any suggestion which favored the mercenary 
passions of his heart ; and, taking that for granted which was 
merely possible, and waiting for no further knowledge of the 
truth, Darcy stole back to Stockton, who was following with 
the main body, and readily filled his mind with the ideas which 
predominated in his own. But few questions were asked by the 
new captain. The information of Darcy seemed to cover all the 
ground ; and they both were instantly ripe for action. 

“There are not twenty — squat upon the turf — some of their 
arms lie beside them, and some upon the tomb ; and the plunder, 
if one may judge from the interest they take in it, must be rather 
more than has blessed their eyes for many a day. We can sur- 
round them in a jiffy, without striking a blow.” 

“But Morton! — do yvAi see nothing of him?” demanded 
Stockton anxiously. 

“ No ! But if these fellows found him at the house, they’ve 
saved us some trouble. They’ve done for him already.” 

“ Enough ! — set on, and lead the way. Manage it, Darcy, to 
suit yourself; you alone know the path.” 

“ Hark ! a trumpet ! I have heard that trumpet once before. 
It must be at the mansion.” 

“The more need f r hurry. These fellows are a squad of 
Lee’s or Sumter’s, who have rifled the house before the main 
body came up. We must be in time to relieve them of their 
burden before they get help from the strongest. After that, 
we can push up for the house, and see what is to be done with 
the rest.” 

“ Keep all still, then,” said Darcy. “ I’ll undertake to sur- 
round these rascals, and relieve them of their plunder, without 
emptying a pistol. Let your horses be fastened here, and we’ll 
goon foot the rest of the journey. Dismount — dismount; we 
have but a few hundred yards to go.” 

Such w ere the arrangements of the Black Riders ; and yield- 


238 


THE SCOUT. 


mg the management of the affair entirely to Darcy, Stockton 
followed with his band in silence. With the stealthy progress 
of the Indian, each individual passed to his appointed station, 
until the tomb, and all about it, was completely environed with 
a cordon militaire , from which nothing could escape. A signal 
whistle warned them to be in readiness, and a second com- 
manded the movement. 

The operation was fully successful. The Hessians were sur- 
rounded before sword could be drawn or yager lifted. Nothing 
could well exceed the astonishment of the mutual parties, the 
captors equally with the captive. The Hessians, with an army 
of two thousand men or more at hand, were confounded to find 
themselves, on a sudden, in custody of a force not twice their own 
number ; while the amazement of the Black Riders was scarcely 
less, when they heard the clamors of th people they had made 
captive, in a language which they could not comprehend, and 
the harsh sounds of which seemed to them so shocking and un- 
natural. Their disappointment was something increased, also, to 
discover, that instead of the treasure of the house of Middle 
ton — the family plate and ladies’ jewels — the supposed plunder 
around which the Hessians had been squatting was neither more 
nor less than the body* seemingly dead, of the tender boy who 
usually attended upon their captain. 

It was at this moment of confusion on both hands, and before 
anything could be understood or anything explained, that Wat- 
son Gray made his appearance, to the satisfaction f one at least 
of the parties. 

“ How now, Darcy ? what’s the matter here ? What are you 
doing with these men ? Let them go.” 

“ Let them go, indeed ! when we’ve just taken them. Let 
them rather go to the gallows.” 

“Gallows ! why, who do you take these felljws for?” 

“Lee’s legion — or a part of it.” 

“ Indeed ? Had your courage ever carried you nigh enough 
to Lee’s legion, you’d have found out your mistake. Why, 
man what are you thinking of? These are his majesty’s 
new levies, hired or bought from the prince of Hesse Cas- 
eel, at two and sixpence a-head, and d — d extravagant pay 


PROGRESS AND SUSPENSE. 239 

too, for such heads as they’ve got. Let them go — they’re 
Hessians !” 

A gibberish, utterly beyond translation by any present, arose 
in echo from the captured foreigners, in full confirmation of this 
assurance. By this time Stockton made his appearance, and 
the face of Watson Gray might have been seen to indicate some 
surprise when he saw him. Gray knew the relation in which 
Stockton stood to his captain, and was instantly assured that the 
latter had never deputed to him the chief command in his ab* 
sence. The circumstance looked suspicious ; but Gray was too 
old a scout to suffer his suspicions to be seen, until he knew in 
what condition the game stood. 

“Ah, Stockton!” he said, indifferently — “is that you? but 
where’s Ben Williams ? is he not in command ?” 

“No, I am,” said Stockton — “I am for the present. We 
came to look after the captain.” 

“ The captain ? * — why where did he leave you V* 

“ In the swamp flats, some two miles below.” 

“ And what brings you to look after him ? Did he order it V* 

“ No,” said Darcy, taking up the tale with an adroitness of 
which he knew that Stockt »n was no master — “no; but. we 
heard trumpets, and as he stayed rather long, we were appre- 
hensive about him. When we came, and saw these fellows 
here, with strange uniforms, we took ’em for Lee’s legion, as we 
heard that Lee was dodging about this neighborhood.” 

“ And you really have never seen Lee’s uniforms, ensign ?” 

“ No, never : we’ve been operating above, you know ; and — ” 

“ You have not found the captain, then ?” 

“Not yet, and what to do ” 

“ I’ll tell you : look there and you’ll find him. The soonei 
we attend to him the better.” 

He led the way to the body of Edward Morton as he spoke, 
otooped down with composure, but interest, and proceeded to 
examine it for the signs of life which it contained. The wily 
Darcy followed his example, and his conduct, in turn, suggested 
to Stockton that which it would be proper for him to pursue. 
Much time was not given to the examination, and still less 
m vain regrets and lamentations. The selfishness of man’s 


240 


THE SCOUT. 


nature soars triumphant above all other considerations, in a tima 
of war; and life becomes as small a subject of consideration as 
any one of its own circumstances. 

“ Some ugly hurts here, I reckon,” said Darcy ; “ we must 
get him to the house and to the hands of the surgeon, as soon 
as possible.” 

“ Does he live V* asked Stockton in a whisper, over Darcy’s 
shoulder. 

“Ay, he lives!” was the answer made by Gray, in tones 
which were somewhat sharpened by asperity ; “ there’s life 
enough to go upon, and, with good care, he’ll be able shortly to 
be in the saddle. If we can stop the blood, there’s nothing to 
be afraid of, I’m thinking.” 

This man boldly took the lea', as a man having his wits 
about him will be always apt to do, in seasons of sudden peril 
and great surprise. Even Stockton tacitly submitted to his 
guidance. 

“ Give way there, my good fellows, and let’s see what we’re 
about. Here, one of you take that door, there-— the door of 
the vault — from its hinges, and we’ll carry him to the house on 
that.” 

Watson Gray muttered through his cl .sed teeth at the con 
elusion ; and his hands were unconsciously pressed upon his hips 
as he spoke : “ He’ll have an easier ride than I had of it. My 
bones will talk of Jack Bannister for a month.” 

The door of the vault was soon brought forward, and the 
Black Riders, with careful hands, raised their captain upon it. 
Darcy and Stockton both busied themselves in this service. 
But, though performed with great caution, the motion recalled 
ihe wounded man to consciousness and pain, and two or three 
half-stifled moans escaped from his lips. He muttered a few 
words, also, which showed that he still fancied himself engaged 
m all the struggles of a protracted and doubtful strife. 

When Gray had seen him fairly placed upon the frame, which 
was amply large, he thought of the poor girl whom the earnest 
solicitations of Supple Jack had commended to his ^are ; and, 
with a degree of interest and tenderness which could scarcely 
have been expected from one habitually so rough, he himself 


PROGRESS AND SUSPENSE. 241 

assisted to place the slight form of the victim beside the body 
of her betrayer. 

By this time, however, the friendly stupor which had first 
come to her relief, no longer possessed her faculties. She had 
recovered her consciousness, but under the burning pressure of 
fever, which filled her mind with all the fancies of delirium. 
She raved of a thousand things, incoherently, which perhaps none 
present could in any way comprehend, but the one individual 
who was engaged in conducting the operations. He, too, harsh 
as was his nature, callous and insensible — the creature of the 
cruel man whose profligate passions he served, and who had 
reduced her to the thing she was, — he, too, did not appear 
entirely unaffected by the wild agony which her ravings denoted 
and expressed. He walked beside her, as a dozen of the sol- 
diers carried the litter toward the house ; and feAv were the 
words, and those only such as seemed to be necessary, which 
he uttered during the mournful procession. 

“ You had better set your men in handsome order, Stockton. 
You will meet Lord Ilawdon at the house, with all his suite, and 
a fine show of military. He likes to see handsome dressing and 
a good front, and he’ll look to you for it while the captain’s 
sick.” 

“ A cursed chance, this,” muttered Stockton, as he drew aside 
with Darcy to put in execution the suggestions of the scout. 
“ Who’d have thought it ? Ilawdon here, and we know not a 
word about it !” 

“ It’s devilish fortunate we did not rush on in the dark. That 
peep of mine was well thought on. But it makes very little 
difference, except the loss of the plunder. Morton’s pretty well 
done for. No less than five wounds upon him — two in the 
jaw and three in the body.” 

“ But how came it ? who could have done it ?” said Stockton. 

“ That matters less than all. Some friend, I take it, who 
knew what we wished most, and saved us the trouble of the 
performance.” 

“ But how strange ! and how stranger than all that we should 
have been deceived in that boy — that Henry ! M 

'* Ay ! — but let us hurry on, and show alacrity as Well as 


242 


THE SCOUT. 


crder. Of course we’ll say nothing about the captaincy. You’. . 

still lieutenant only, and if Morton dies ” 

“ He must die !” said the other. 

“ Ay, he must. Rawdon will leave him a surgeon, and wt 
will find a guard ; and if lie survives the one, there’s but 
little chance of bis getting off from the other. Eli ! what 
think you ?” 

“ It will do,” was the significant answer of Stockton. They 
understood each other thoroughly, before they put their men in 
order. The thoughts of Watson Gray were not less busy, as 
he pursued his way alone with the wounded persons ; nor were 
they more favorable to the conspirators, than was the determina- 
tion of those friendly to their captain. He knew, better than 
any other man, the true history of the latter, and the sort of re- 
lation in which he stood to his troop. He was not ignorant, 
also, of the scorn which Morton felt for Stockton, and the hate, 
more deadly because secret, p with which the other requited it. 
He could readily conceive, at the same time, that Stockton’s in- 
terest would lie in the death of his captain ; and, putting all 
these things together in his mind, he determined to keep his eyes 
open, and watchful of every movement of the parties. 

“ Rawdon will take them with him to Ninety-Six,” he mut- 
tered, as he'<?ame to this conclusion. 

“ I will persuade him to do so, at least, and the chances are 
fair that they will get themselves knocked on the head before 
the siege is over. But, whether they do or not, we shall gain 
time ; and if Morton’s hurts are curable, we shall know it before 
they get back, and provide accordingly. But one thing must bf* 
cared for. Rawdon must not know Morton in the house of Flora 
Middleton. That would spoil all. I must speak with him before 
the body arrives. He must leave the matter to me.” 

Whatever may have been the tie that attached Watson Gray 
the chief of the Black Riders, his course was evidently that of 
a true and shrewdly thinking friend. He had no sooner deter- 
mined what was proper for him to do, than he hurried ahead of 
the procession, and made his appearance in the spacious hall of 
the mansion several minutes before it could possibly arrive. His 
lordship was in the parlor with the ladies, but Gray knew lam 


A CONFERENCE WITH THE ENEMY. 


248 


to be a man of business, with whom business is always a suffi- 
cient plea for any interruption. 9 

“Say to his lordship that Watson. Gray would speak with 
him in private, on matters of some importance,” he said to an 
officer in attendance, who knew the estimation in which the 
icout was held, and at once disappeared to do his bidding. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A CONFERENCE WITH THE ENEMY. 

Lord Rawdon appears in the history of the war in the south- 
ern colonies, to have been one of the sternest leaders of the time : 
as sanguinary in his temper as Earl Cornwallis, and without any 
of those impulses of a better temper which have secured for the 
latter, from one of the American captains, the doubtfully de- 
served epithet of the “amiable Cornwallis.” Rawdon left him- 
self open neither to the lurking irony nor the obvious flattery of 
such an epithet. His discipline was rigid to the last degree ; his 
temper cold and inflexible ; and he seems to have regarded the 
enemies whom he had the fortune to conquer, as something 
which, like the spoil he won, he might easily dispose of accord- 
ing to the mood which governed him at the moment, and not 
under the direction of any fixed principles or written laws. His 
cruelties, open and specious, are on record ; but these do not 
concern us at this moment ; and we must admit that the king 
of England had no representative in all the Revolution who 
was more constant to his duties or more resolute in their per- 
formance. Lord Rawdon had also the merit of being a gentle- 
man ; a hard, cold, inflexible soldier — too free to shed blood, 
and not politic enough to do so at the right time and in the right 
place ; obdurate in his purpose and unpliant in his feelings — but 
still a gentleman : a qualification for his crimes of perhaps very 
small intrinsic value, but one which die possessed in common 
with very few, among the many with whom ho co-operated du- 
ring his career in the southern country. 


244 


THE SCOUT. 


Well acquainted with the character of the Middleton family 
it had been, as we have already elsewhere intimated, the policy 
of this commander, as well as of him by whom he had been pre- 
ceded, to treat the inmates of the barony with all indulgence. 
Their popularity with the surrounding country, which it was de- 
sirable to conciliate, was a sufficient reason for an indulgence 
which, in the reckless career of the invaders, they had not been 
disposed to extend to many ; and the time was fast approaching 
when, in the declining power of their arms, their desperation led 
them to withdraw even this degree of favor, in the vain hope to 
coerce the patriotism which they found it impossible to persuade 
or seduce. 

Already had the tone of British superiority been lowered. 
They could no longer maintain themselves in their strongholds ; 
and, evacuating Camden under the accumulating pressure of the 
American forces, Rawdon was even now on his way to Ninety- 
Six, to piotract the hour of its downfall. This was the last strong- 
hold left them in the interior, and to delay, not to baffle its as- 
sailants, in the work of conquest, was now the only hope of the 
British commander. The political aspects of the time were all 
unfavorable to British ascendency ; and the -temper of his lord- 
ship underwent a corresponding change with his changing for- 
tunes. This could be seen by the Middletons the moment when 
he announced himself their guest, with the air and manner of 
one who feels all the changes in his own fortunes, and readily 
divines the effect of such change upon his reluctant host. He 
looked, though he did not say : — 

“ I know that you receive me with reluctance — that my 
presence is hateful to you — nay, that you perceive and exult in 
my approaching overthrow — but I still have the power to com- 
pel your respect, and I may yet awaken your fears. You shall 
receive me, and seem glad to do so.” 

But the suspicious mood of Rawdon became quieted when, in 
the gentle and easy deportment of the ladies, he failed to behold 
the exulting expression of those sentiments which he fancied 
might fdl their bosoms. They were superior to tlmt vulgar sen- 
timent of triumph which shows itself in the ill-disguised grin, or 
in the reserved and chilling demeanor. A quiet dignity and a 


A CONFERENCE WIT El THE ENEMY. 


215 


gentle grace were apparent in the conduct of Loth, in receiving 
the British chief: and this, in the younger of the two ladies, was 
mingled with some little tremulousness — the result of her con- 
sciousness of what had just before taken place between herself 
and Clarence Conway — which Rawdon was not unwilling to 
ascribe to the agitation which his own presence must naturally 
produce upon a very youthful mind. 

This notion pleased his self-complacency, and made the work 
of soothing more easy to the ladies ; but they could still perceive 
that they had assumed, as enemies, in the recent successes of 
their countrymen, an increased importance in his eyes, which 
lessened his smiles, and probably increased their dangers; — 
and they were soon made to understand this difference in a more 
direct and decided manner. 

Tea, at the time the bane of the country, though the blessing 
of the ladies, was the crowning dish of the evening repast ; and 
this commodity, though employed simply in compliment to the 
Briton, gave Raivdon an opportunity to say something on the 
subject of their loyalty, as he sat down the rich bowl of gold- 
rimmed China, from which, in that day of a luxury far more 
ostentatious than ours, though of far less general ostentation, the 
precious beverage was drunk. 

“I rejoice to see, ladies, that your patriotism — so I think 
you call this flinging away your king and country — takes coun- 
sel of good taste, and does not allow you to fling away your 
tea-bowls also. It would have been a serious trial of faith to 
your sex to have given up the celestial liquor for more than a 
season ’ 

The old lady answered smartly, with no small portion of that 
spirit which then distinguished the dames of Carolina. 

“ I can not accept your compliment to our tastes, my lord, at 
the expense of our patriotism. You perceive that while your 
lordship drinks tea, we confine ourselves to such beverage only 
as our milch cattle yield us. Sometimes we regale ourselves on 
Indian tea, which is made of the Cussenca leaf; but this onlv 
when our milk fails us, which is no unfrequent event, since the 
Black Riders have found their way into our neighborhood.” 

“ And their presence, madam, is only another evil consequence 


246 


THE SCOUT. 


of your patriotism. But surely tlie whole burden of this com- 
plaint should not fall upon the Black Riders. There have been 
such ‘ Riders’ as follow Lee and Sumter in this neighborhood 
lately ; of whom report speaks not more favorably ; and who 
probably love milch cattle quite as well as anybody else. Nay, 
rny fair young mistress,” addressing himself to Flora, “ there is 
another Rider, black enough in my eyes, but, perhaps, anything 
but black in yours. Ha ! you can guess who I mean by this 
description; and I will not name him for your sake ; — but let 
me catch him !” and he raised a threatening finger, while a i 
half smile rested upon his lips. Flora could not altogether 
suppress the blush which found its way to her cheeks, and was 
as little able to control the irony that rose at the same time to 
her lips. 

“ Ah, my lord, you are too severe upon our poor sex ; but — 

She paused, and the color heightened upon her cheeks. 

“ But what ?” he asked, seeing her hesitate. 

“ But what if lie catches you, my lord ?” 

“ Flora, Flora !” said the grandmother, with a look and voice ; 
of warning. A momentary gravity overspread the face of 
Rawdon, and his severe features, under the dark shade of his 
lowering brows, almost startled Flora with a sentiment of ap- 
prehension for her own imprudence ; but the good sense and 
breeding of his lordship came to her relief as well as his own. 

“ Ah, my fair foe,” he said with a smile of good nature, “ still 
incorrigible — still dangerous. The tongues of your Carolina 
ladies inflict deeper wounds than the swords of your heroes.” 

“ I would you could think so, my lord.” 

“ Why, they do,” he answered, “ they do.” 

“Nay, my lord, I will not contradict you, and yet I am try- 
ing to persuade myself that you will think otherwise before 
you come back from ‘ Ninety-Six.’ ” 

“And do you find the task of self-persuasion difficult? I 
should think not ; and least, you hope I will come back ?” 

“Yes, my lord, I hope so — in safety; but with such opinions 
as will make you think better of our soldiers, and, in this reason, 
find a much farther journey necessary.” 

“ What, to Charleston, eh ? a forced march back ?” 


A CONFERENCE WITH THE ENFMY. 


247 


‘ To England, my lord; to England ; at that distance there 
will be some chance of our being better friends, and we shall 
then resume our tea.” 

“ But without the duties V* he said laughing. 

“ Not altogether, my lord. I, for one, feel all the disposition 
to be the dutiful friend — if you please the dutiful child — of 
England; — but not the subject, not the slave! Her victim, 
rather !” 

“ Ah, my fair Flora, we wish no sacrifice : none of you, at 
least. We shall drag no damsel to the altar, unless it be to one 
of her OAvn choosing. But, in return for this sharp speech of 
yours, fair lady, suffer me to know when Colonel Conway was 
here last ; how long since he has taken his departure, and where 
I may expect to find him ?” 

“ He has been here, my lord, I frankly tell you, but when he 
left I will not say. You will find him ” 

She hesitated as if in meditation, while her large brilliant 
eyes shone without a cloud upon her auditor, and her form 
seemed to dilate in more than feminine majesty as she rose to 
leave the room : — 

“ Stay, Miss Middleton,” said his lordship, “ you have not told 
me where I may expect to find Colonel Conway.” 

Her answer was immediate, with flashing eyes, and fearless 
accents. 

“ You may expect to find him, my lord, wherever an ambush 
can be laid ; whenever a bold soldier may fancy that his sword 
jan make an enem}^ feel ; or a good blow can be struck for the 
liberties of his country.” 

“ Humph !” exclaimed Rawdon, gravely, though without dis- 
pleasure, as Flora left the room. “ Your granddaughter, Mrs. 
Middleton, is quite as fierce a rebel as ever.” 

" She is young, my lord, and very enthusiastic, but though 
she speaks thus, I’m sure she is quite as unhappy at this war as 
any of us. We all wish it well over.” 

“ That is saying everything for the right side. To wish it 
Vjdl over, madam, is simply to wish our king his own again. 
But now, that your daughter has withdrawn, let rne remind you, 
Mra Middleton, of the royal favor to yourself and family- ” 


248 


THE SCOUT. 


“To me , my lord; — to my family!” was the reply of the 
venerable lady, with some appearance of astonishment. 

“ Yes, madam, in the immunity you have so long enjoyed; 
when it has been well known to his majesty’s commanders in 
the South, that your own and the sentiments of your grand- 
daughter — your opinions and wishes — are all unfavorable to 
his authority.” 

“ Ain I to understand, my lord, that his majesty’s officers are 
instructed to wage war against the opinions of the women as 
well as the swords of the men of Carolina ?” 

“ No, madam, far from it ; but those opinions sharpen those 
swords ” 

“ I am proud, my lord, to think, and hear you acknowledge 
that such is the case !” 

“ I had not thought, madam, to have hearkened to this lan- 
guage from your lips. The protection you have enjoyed — 
your immunities from the confiscation which has usually folIoAved 
disloyalty — should, I think, have prompted a degree of grati- 
tude for his majesty’s government, which would have saved his 
representative from such an answer.” 

“ You mistake, my lord, in some important particulars. My 
immunities are not due to his majesty’s government. If they 
are to be spoken of as due anywhere, they must be ascribed to 
that sense of manliness in the soldiers of both sides in this 
bloody warfare, all of whom, it seems to me, would have blushed 
the color of your scarlet, my lord, at doing hurt 4;o two lone 
women in the wilderness.” 

Rawdon did blush with vexation at the retort, as he answered 
it with a strong effort at gentlemanly composure. 

“ You have surely mistaken me, Mrs. Middleton. My purpose 
was simply to intimate that his majesty’s officers' have been at 
some pains, more than is customary in a country which has been 
so completely covered with contending armies, to preserve from 
detriment and hurt your possessions and interests.” 

“ 1 confess, my lord, the amount of what you no\v say seems 
to me to differ little from what was said before. You have for- 
borne to seize my own and my child’s property, though we have 
been bold enough to think that you had no right to seize it ; and 


A CONFERENCE WITH THE ENEMY. 


249 


for tliis you demand our gratitude. My lord, I understand, 
though you have not spoken, the real purpose which you feel 
unwilling to declare. I can very well comprehend the diffi- 
culties under which his majesty’s arms labor at present. I know 
that their supplies are everywhere cut off ; and that they look 
to what are called ‘forced loans’ to enable them to prosecute 
the war.” 

“ You are well informed, I perceive, madam. Am I to under- 
stand that the rebel Sumter has been recently your guest ?” 

“ Within ten days, my lord ; and my opinions being such as 
they are, I placed in his hands, for the use of my country, the 
entire plate of the Middleton barony, and every jewel of value 
which belonged to myself and child. The few spoons which 
graced our board to-night, and the bowl in which our children 
have been baptized from immemorial time, are all that were 
kept back from the free gift which my feelings made to my 
friends. These, my lord ” 

“ Of these, madam, the cause of my king does not make it 
necessary that I should deprive you,” replied Rawdon, with a 
graceful dignity which left nothing to be complained of. “ Your 
plate would have been important to us, Mrs. Middleton ; and 
ymu will do us the justice to believe that, knowing as we did its 
great intrinsic value, we did not make this requisition until the 
last hour, and then only in obedience to necessities which none 
but ourselves can comprehend. Believe me, madam, though I 
am somewhat disappointed, it is a pain spared me, which I would 
have felt, in depriving you of this family treasure. Nor can I 
complain, regarding your social attachments with respect, that 
you have yielded it to the hands of those who will make use of 
it against me. I must do as well as I can without it. Let me 
not lose your esteem, my dear madam, because of my proposi- 
tion, which you will also do me the justice to believe was not 
less painful than unavoidable.” 

The message of Watson Gray was received at this moment, 
and the venerable old lady disappeared with a kind courtesy, 
leaving his lordship free to the interview with the scout. 

“A brave-hearted old woman!” said his lordship, during the 
briel interval in which he remained alone. “ She has given a 


250 


THE SCOUT. 


monstrous subsidy to Greene, which will keep him on his legs a 
while, and perhaps 'trip ours ; and yet I can not be angry with 
her. The stock is a good one ; one would almost wish a mother 
or a daughter of such a noble heart and go fearless a temper 
All, Gray, I’ve been locking for you. When did you get ovei 
from the Wateree ?” 

“ I left there yesterday morning. I rode all night, and had 
to make more than two turns between the Hills and the Conga- 
ree, to get out of the way of Marion’s men, who seem to me to 
be thicker than ever. Your lordship’s for Ninety-Six ?” 

“Yes; can you tell me any thing about it ? These rascally 
horse of Lee and Conway have, I fear, cut off all my messengers 
to Cruger, as they certainly have cut off everything, m the shape 
of intelligence, from me.” 

“ Ninety-Six is dreadful hard pressed, your lordship ; that’s all 
I know, and that was my knowledge three days ago.” 

“ I fear I shall be too late,” said Rawdon. “ But you wished 
to see me on other business. What is it ?” 

“ Does your lordship know that Colonel Conway, with all his 
troop, has been here within the last hour? Your coming scared 
him from his roost.” 

“ Indeed, so lately!” said his lordship. “Then he can not 
even now be far. We must send Major Banks after him — 
and his lordship was about to summon a messenger. 

“ If I might venture to counsel your lordship, you will do 
nothing to-night. It will be only to send your detachment into 
an ambush. This is what Conway expects, and what he will 
prepare for.” 

“ But we can not suffer him to lie or loiter about our encamp- 
ment ; we must brush him off at the risk of a sting.” 

“ No, your lordship ; but a double guard and extra videttes 
will serve all necessary purposes, and, with the dawn, Major 
Banks can be in motion. Now, however, Conway is in posses- 
sion of his own ground, all of which he knows, while Major 
Banks will be moving to danger with a blind across his eyes.” 

“You are right; anl what has Conway been doing here, and 
where is his brother — our desperado of the Congaree V* 


A CONFERENCE WITH THE ENEMY. 


251 


“ Here, also ! — within a hundred yards of us.” 

“ Ha ! How is it I have not seen him, then ?” 

“ You will see him shortly, my lord, and in bad condition 
Ther brothers have met, single-handed ; and they have hi ought 
the old grudge to a finish, I’m afraid. There has been a despe- 
rate fight between them, and the captain is very much hurt. It 
is somewhat doubtful if he ever gets over it.” 

“ And the other — the rebel — has he escaped ? — goes he scot 
free?” 

“ That I can’t tell. I should think not, however ; for, know 
ing how Ned Morton hates him, and how many good reasons he 
has for killing him, he would run all risks of his own life to make 
a finish of the other. His condition makes me think that the 
other must be hurt ; but his hurts can not be serious, for he cer- 
tainly got off.” 

“ How heard you this, Gray ?” 

“ From that rascally fellow, Bannister, otherwise called Sup- 
ple Jack — the same who carried off Colonel Cruger’s black 
charger from the Forks of Congaree. The colonel offered 
twenty guineas to take the scout alive, and I thought I had him 
at one time to-night. But I caught a Tartar. He gave me a 
strange trot, and such a shaking as I shall feel in all my bones 
for a month to come.” 

Here Gray gave a full description of the scene, at which his 
lordship’s muscles relaxed infinitely ; and he then proceeded to 
narrate those other details which led him to the subject of 
Morton’s attendance. On this head it was necessary to exercise 
some adroitness. It was no part of Gray’s policy to let Rawdon 
see that a provincial scout should presume to suspect the integ- 
rity of a ro) al officer, and he studiously forbore, in consequence, 
fcc declare those suspicions which he felt of Stockton. 

“ It is important that the connection of Captain Morton with 
the Black Riders should not be suspected while he lies here 
wounded. No guard could possibly save him from the rebels, 
should they be able to identify his person. Here, he is known 
as Edward Conway, the brother of one who is no small favorite 
with the ladies of the barony. This will save him from dangei 
without, and secure him good attendance within. Miss Middle 


252 


THE SC0U1. 


ton, herself, will, I think, see to that, if on the score of his con- 
nections only. 1 will provide the guard for Captain Morton, and 
you can take, with you his troop, which is under the command 
of Lieutenant Stockton, a brave man and a good officer. They 
are pretty strong, and the greatest daredevils under the sun. 
You’ll get good service out of them, and will need them, too, 
my lord, if, as I suspect, you are somewhat short of cavalry.” 

“ You think rightly, Gray ; and your plans are good. I will 
leave a surgeon’s assistant with Morton, which is all that I can 
do ; but my own surgeon will see to his hurts before he goes.” 

“ Your lordship will be so good as to remember that Captain 
Morton is no more than Mr. Conway here.” 

“ Ay, ay ; but what noise is that below ?” 

“The captain’s .body, I reckon. Will your lordship look at 
him 

“ Is he sensible — conscious?” 

“ I think not yet, my lord. He was in a swoon when I left 
him, in consequence of loss of blood.” 't 

“It will not need then. I will send Mr. Coppinger to exam- | 
me his hurts, and as 1 am to know nothing about him, you must 
take your own course to get him domiciled among the ladies.” 

“ That is easily done, your lordship,” said Gray, retiring ; “ I I 
have your lordship’s permission to make the necessary arrange- j 
ments.” 

“ You have ; send me Lieutenant Farrington, who waits with- 
out,” said Rawdon, as the other left the room. 

It scarcely need be said that the wily Gray succeeded in all 
his present purposes, His opinions were esteemed to be suffi- 
ciently sound, by his lofdship, to be followed implicitly. Lieu- 
tenant Stockton was relieved from the care of his captain, and 
ordered to place himself, with his whole troop, under the com- 
mand of Major Banks, of the British cavalry ; and the bare inti- 
mation of Edward Conway’s situation, to the ladies of the bar- 
ony, secured for the wounded man one of the most comfortable 
chambers in the mansion. Nor did Watson Gray neglect the 
forlorn and outcast damsel whom John Bannister had commended 
to his care. An adjoining apartment was readily procured for 
her in the same spacious dwelling, and the surgeon's aid was 


A MIDNIGHT ATTACK — A PRISONER. 


£ 5 * 

solicited for the poor victim as soon as it had been bestowed 
upon her betrayer. We leave Edward Conway in the* same 
house with Flora Middleton — but as yet utterly unconscious of 
her presence and near neighborhood— -while we pursue the 
rmte taken by his brother. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A MIDNIGHT ATTACK A PRISONER. 

Clarence Conway was not far distant from the British 
camp, and was soon found by John Bannister, after the latter 
had taken his leave of Watson Gray. The partisan had already 
reached his troop, and got it in partial readiness for immediate 
exercise. His force was little more than that of a captain’s 
command, consisting of some eighty -five men all told ; but, on 
occasion, his regiment might be made complete. Such fluctu- 
ations were constant in the American army ; and were inevitably 
consequent to the miserable system then prevalent in regard to 
militia service. Marion’s brigade has been known to range 
from eighty to eight hundred men ; nor was this difference, in 
scarcely any case, the result of disaster. The volunteers came 
and went, according to circumstances of more or less necessity, 
and sometimes as it suited their inclinations. 

There were always good reasons for this seeming laxity ot 
discipline, as well because of the pressure of a far superior foe, 
as in the exhausted condition of the country of Carolina ; where, 
for a space of nearly two years, few crops of any kind had been 
planted ; and it became next to impossible to find food and 
forage for any large body of men and horse, for any considerable 
time together. The service was of a sort, also, to render small 
bodies of horse far more useful than grand armies ; and where 
food was to be procured, and brought from a great distance, 
such detachments were of the very last importance. Conway’s 
regiment, according to the necessities of the service, was in half 


34 


THE SCOUT. 


a dozen hands ; Sumtei had a portion of it at this very moment 
on the Santee ; Marion on the Pedee ; while Greene exercised 
the remaining divisions as Conway, employed the small body in 
his immediate command — in cutting off supplies, intercepting 
messengers, overawing the disaffected, and hanging upon the 
skirts of the enemy while they marched, as in the case of Raw 
don’s army, at this very time, in a body too large for any more 
bold procedure. i 

Bannister found his leader well prepared for movement, and 
anxiously awaiting him. The former told his story in a few 
words, not entirely omitting the ludicrous passages which had 
taken place between himself and Gray. As the connection 
between this latter person and Edward Morton was very well 
known to Clarence, the mind of the latter was rendered rather 
more easy on the subject of his brother. He knew that Morton 
was of sufficient importance to the British army, to make his 
restoration the particular charge of Rawdon ; but his satisfac- 
tion on this subject was somewhat qualified when he remem- 
bered that the patient would, necessarily, become an occupant 
of the same dwelling with Flora Middleton. His anxieties were 
such as are natural enough to the lover, who, in such cases, will 
always be apt to fancy and to fear a thousand evil influences. 
He had no doubts of the firmness and fidelity of Flora ; but, 
knowing the evil connections of Morton, he dreaded lest the 
latter should find some means to abuse the hospitality which he 
well knew would be accorded him. These thoughts were 
troublesome enough to render activity desirable by way of 
relief; and after a brief space given to consultation with his 
favorite scout, and little private meditation, he determined to 
heat up the quarters of Rawdon before morning. 

It was midnight when Bannister began to bestir himself and 
his comrades for this purpose. The troop had been suffered to 
snatch a few hours of repose on the edge of a little bay, that 
stretched itself nearly to the river bank on one hand, and to 
the main road of the country on the other ; in such a position 
of security, and under such good watch, that no apprehension 
could be excited for their safety. A dense thicket covered their 
front ; beyond, and lying between the thicket and the barony, 


A MIDNIGHT ATTACK — A PRISONER. 


255 


vas an open pine wood, the undergrowth being kept down by 
the destructive practice, still barbarously continued in the south, 
o r firing the woods annually in the opening of the spring. This 
wood was traversed by tlie scouts of Conway, who saw the 
advanced videttes of the British, without suffering themselves 
to be seen, and gradually receded as the latter continued to ap- 
proach ; still, however, keeping a keen eye upon the stations 
which they severally assumed. 

On the present occasion, following the suggestions of Watson 
Gray, Lord Rawdon had doubled his sentries, and increased the 
usual number of videttes. His post was well guarded, though 
nothing could have been more idle than the fear, that a force 
such as he commanded could be securely annoyed by any of the 
roving squad* of V.rse which the Americans had dispersed 
about the country. But, at this time, the timidity of the British 
increased hourly in due degree with the increased audacity of 
the Americans. There was too much at stake to suffer any 
British commander to omit any of the usual safeguards of an 
army; and their plans and performances, from this period, show 
a degree of scrupulous caution, which at certain periods of 
strife — and this was one of them in their situation — may, with 
justice, be considered imbecility. To dash for a moment into 
the camp of the British, and carry off a group of captives, was 
one of the ordinary proofs of the novel confidence which the 
partisans had acquired of their own prowess, during the year in 
progress. 

Conway, however, was not the man to do anything rashly at 
such a moment. If caution was necessary to the British, pru- 
dence was also a high virtue, at this particular juncture, with 
the Am -5 -leans. Before he led his men forward, he determined 
to explore the British camp himself , and, having arranged with 
Bannister for a concerted espionage, the two went forward for 
this purpose, though on different routes. Conway pursued the 
way through the pine-forest in front, while Bannister took an 
opposite but parallel course along the high road, which he 
crossed for this purpose. They were absent about two hours, and, 
in + he meantime, everything was quiet enough in the camps. 
At the end of this period they leturned in satetv • and a mutual 


256 


THE SCOUT. 


report enabled them to determine upon the course which they 
were to take. 

They had satisfied themselves of the true position of t ’.j 
B ritish army, and discovered, that while the sentries were 
doubled on the path to which it was advancing, they had not 
conceived it necessary to place more than an ordinary watch on 
that which they had passed over during the day. By making 
a small circuit of a mile and a half along a negro footpath, 
which carried them through a swamp on the right, Conway 
found that lie could get into the British rear, and probably use 
the sabre to advantage on the edge of the encampment. This 
was to be done with the main body of the troop, while a feint 
was to be made with the residue along the better guarded 
British line in front. 

It was near two o’clock in the morning when the prepara- 
tions of the partisans were completed; and John Bannister had 
already gathered together the division which had been assigned 
him, when his sleeve was plucked by a soldier whose person he 
could not distinguish in the shadows where they stood. This 
person called him aside for a moment, and Bannister then dis- 
covered him to be the father of poor Mary Clarkson. This 
man was a sullen, dark, solitary, but unsubdued spirit — who 
said nothing, felt nothing, asked for nothing, complained of 
nothing, and had but one desire in the world. John Banniste-r 
had missed sight of Clarkson for some time till now ; and, per- 
haps, had rather avoided him since his return from the scene 
in which his unlucky arm inflicted the unintentional injury upon 
his unhappy daughter. He now shrunk to look upon the miser- 
able old man ; and when he spoke to him, it was with a feeling 
of compunctious sorrow, almost as great as he would have felt 
had 1m himself inflicted upon the unhappy father the vital injury 
which was due to Edward Morton only. 

“ You lia’n’t spoke to me about going with you. Jack Bannis- 
ter,” said Clarkson, with some irritation in his tones ; “ but I’m 
going with you jest the same.” 

“No, Jake, you’re to keep with Lieutenant Peyton’s party, 
that’s to make a feint here in front. He’ll call you up, the 
moment we set off.” 


A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. -A PRISONER. 257 

** T don’t stay with him, Jack ; I must keep with you or the 
colonel,” said the man, doggedly. 

“But why, Jake? why won’t you stay?” 

“You’re going to strike at the camp, ain’t you? You’ll ride 
up to the barony, perhaps ?” 

“ May be so — there’s no tellin’ yet.” 

“ That’s why I want to go with you or the colonel.” 

“Well now Jake, I’d much rather you’d stay with the lieu- 
tenant.” 

“ It’s onpossible,’* said Clarkson, obstinately. “ Look you, 
Jack Bannister, I don’t take it as friendly, that you didn’t tell 
tell me that Ned Conway was at the barony.” 

“How do you know? who told you?” demanded the wood- 
man in some astonishment. 

“ Never you mind. I know that you saw him there ; and 
what’s more, I know that the colonel fou’t with him, and ’s hurt 
:iim mightily. But I know lie’s not got what’s to finish him j 
and I’ll go where there’s any chance to do it.” 

“ Lord, Jake, there’s no chance. We’ll not get nigher to the 
camp than the outposts, and if we can carry off a few outskairt- 
ers, it’s all we look for. Ned Conway is at the house, I reckon, 
snug in his bed, with more than a thousand men close round 
him. There’s no chance for you to reach him.” 

“ I reckon I can work through all of them, John Bannister, 
seeing what’s my business. I must go with you or the colonel, 
no mistake.” 

Bannister knew his man — knew how idle was everything like 
expostulation ; and though he also well knew that such a deter- 
mination as Clarkson expressed was only likely to insure his being 
knocked on the head sooner than any of the rest, yet, as that 
was only a chance of war among military philosophers, he let 
him have his own way, and quietly enrolled him with the rest. 

It would have been a study for the painter to have seen the 
savage old man reload his rifle, pick the touchhole, put in extra 
priming, and turn the bullet in his jaws, ere he wrapped it in 
the greasy fold of buckskin of which his patches were made. 

“Poor old fellow!” muttered Bannister to himself as he be- 
these operations. I’m thinking he says a prayer every 


THE SCOUT. 


time lie chooses a bullet; I’m sure he does whenever he’s 
grinding his knife.” 

1 1. was with some reluctance that Clarkson was persuaded to 
gird a sabre at his side. The instrument was new to his hand, 
but he clutched it with sufficient familiarity when Bannister told 
him it was heavy and sharp enough to cleave a man through 
I rorn his shoulder to his thigh. 

All being now in readiness, Conway gave instructions to Lieu 
tenant Peyton to make no movement on the front, until suffi- 
cient time had been allowed him for getting into the rear of the 
encampment ; and then to give the alarm, and beat up the ene- 
my’s quarters, with all the clamor he could command. By two 
and two, he led his troops forward, each man on foot and guiding 
his steed with shortened rein, until they 7 had passed the narrow 
open neck of high land on which the public road ran, and which 
separated the one bay, which he had lately 7 occupied, from another 
to which he now bent his steps. A British vidette was stationed 
not more than a hundred yards from the point of passage, and 
great indeed were the anxieties of Clarence and of all, until the 
horses ceased to traverse the highland, and entered upon the 
mucky unresounding footing of the swamp. 

But they escaped without notice. The British sentinel was 
in his drowsiest mood — drunk perhaps — and suffered the pas- 
sage to be effected without alarm. The last two files were 
now entirely beyond his hearing, and Conway, throwing off the 
difficult restraint which his impatience felt as a curb and bit, 
gave orders to his followers to mount and follow him at as swift 
a pace as possible, through the negro trail which they now trav- 
ersed. Then, a silence as awful as that of the grave descended 
upon the forest which he had left, and prevailed over the region 
for a space of nearly two hours more; when Lieutenant Peyton 
prepared to make the feint which was to divert the attention of 
the British camp from the point which was more certainly 
threatened. With twenty men, judiciously scattered along the 
front, so asvto present an object of equal alarm to the whole line 
of the enemy’s sentries, he slowly advanced, and having that ad- 
vantage which arises from a perfect knowledge of his ground, his 
approach remained unseen and unsuspected until it was almost 


A MIDNIGHT ATTACK-*— A PRISONER. 259 

possible for his pistols to be emptied with some prospect of each 
bullet being made to tell upon its separate victim. 

A silence almost equally great prevailed over that vast hive 
of human hearts which was then beating within the immediate 
precincts of the barony. Sleep had possessed the great body of 
its inmates. Exhaustion had done its work The forced marches 
of Lord Rawdon, stimulated as they had been by the fear of 
losing the last and strongest outposts of his government, together 
with its brave and numerous garrison, had severely tested the 
strength and the spirit of his troops, and deep was the lethargy 
of all those to whom the privilege of sleep ljtad been accorded. 
Nor were those to whom sleep had been expressly denied, in a 
condition of much more ability and consciousness. The senti- 
nels, though strictly cautioned, had suffered themselves to be per- 
suaded that there could be no danger in a region in which they 
well knew there was no enemy imbodied in sufficient force to 
make itself feared by their own ; and if they had not formally 
yielded themselves up to sleep upon their places of watch, they 
at least made no serious effort to escape its grateful influences, 
and were no longer vigilant as they would have been in a time 
of danger. Throughout the avenue, and ranged along the 
grounds of the park which lay beside it, two thousand men, in 
groups, lay upon their arms, in happy slumber, uncovered to the 
serene sky of May ; while, in the silvery glances of the soft 
moonlight, which glistened brightly from his steel cap and pol- 
ished L.yonct, the drowsy sentinel performed his weary round 
of watch ; or, leaning in half consciousness only, against the 
massive trunk of some ancient oak, yielded himself, in momen- 
tary forgetfulness, to dream of the green island or the heathery 
highlands of his European home. 

In the mansion where Lord Rawdon had taken up his abode, 
the same silence prevailed, but not the same degree of apathy. 
Busy and sad hearts, and suffering forms, were wakeful in its 
several chambers. Rawdon himself slept ; but, in the apartment 
assigned to the chief of the Black Riders, Watson Gray was an 
anxious watcher. The surgeon had examined and dressed the 
wounds of the former, upon which he had as yet declined to 
an opinion. Conway had lost much blood, and this, Gray 


260 


THE SCOUT. 


very well knew, was rather favorable than otherwise to his condition. 
The patient lay, not sleeping, perhaps, hut with his eyes closed and 
his senses seemingly unobservant. An occasional groan escaped him, 
as if unconsciously. Exhaustion, rather than repose, was signified 
by his quiescence. 

In another part of the house lay his suffering victim. The mind 
of Mary Clarkson w T andered in all the misdirected heat of delirium, 
the result equally of mental and physical pain. By her side sat 
Flora Middleton. The sex of the poor victim had been made known 
to the mistress of the mansion, through the medium of the servants, 
by the timely management of Watson Gray; but that wily associate 
of the outlaw chief, had not omitted the opportunity which it af- 
forded him of turning the event to favorable account in behalf of the 
man he served so faithfully. 

‘ It’s a poor girl,” he said to the servant to whom his information 
was intrusted, “that followed Colonel Conway from the Congaree, 
and when he and his brother fought by the vault, which they did 
about your young mistress, the poor girl jumped between them to 
save the colonel, and got her hurts that way. She is only dressed in 
boy’s clothes that she mightn’t be known among the troop.” 

The falsehood found its way to the ears for which it was intended ; 
and the proud heart of Flora Middleton rose in indignation as she 
heard it. 

“But the wretched woman is yet a woman, and she’s suffering, ” 
was the humane sentiment with which she silenced the communicat- 
ive negro. “She is a woman, whatever may be her vices, and I will 
see to her myself. ” 

And when she beheld her, she could no longer scorn the frail 
victim of a misplaced affection and a reckless lust. 

Emaciated and wan, the miserable girl sang and gibbered 
with all the unconcern of the confirmed maniac ; and prated at 
intervals of the childish follies which are usually the prime sources 
of pleasure to the child. She spoke of girlish wants and girlish 
pleasures, and ran on in a manner of inconsiderate merriment, 
which was of all things the most mournful and heart-sickening 
to contemplate. But she seemed neither to see nor hear. It was 
only when the surgeon pressed his hand upon the wounded skull 


A MIDNIGHT ATTACK — A PRISONER. 


2G1 


that she lapsed away into utter silence, which was accompanied 
by a vacant stare upon the operator, so hideous in the deathlike 
imbecility which it expressed, as to make Flora shudder and 
turn away with a sickening horror that took from her all strength 
to serve or to assist. It was only when the surgeon had finished 
the operations which he deemed necessary, that she could re- 
sume strength to return to the chamber, and the patient then 
la}^ in a condition of stupor that secured her effectual silence for 
the time. 

Not a word now escaped her lips; but a choking sob occa- 
sionally heaved her bosom as if with convulsion; and amply de- 
noted the “perilous stuff” which lay thick and deadly about her 
heart. Flora Middleton sat beside her, with one female servant 
in attendance, when all the rest had retired. Her personal 
presence was not necessary, but she could not sleep on account 
of the troublesome and humiliating fancies which possessed her, 
on the subject of the story which she had heard in regard to 
Clarence Conway. That she should have surrendered her best 
affections to one who could thus abuse and degrade the warmest, 
if not the loftiest devotion of her sex, was, indeed, a subject of 
humiliating consideration to a spirit so proud as hers; and it was 
with a feeling of relief that the sudden sharp shot of the as- 
sault, and the wild ringing of the midnight trumpet, while 
it denoted the approach of unexpected conflict, disturbed the 
train of painful thought into which her mind had unavoidably 
fallen. 

The tumult without was as wild and terrible as it had been 
sudden. A moment of the deepest midnight stillness had been suc- 
ceeded by one of the fiercest uproar. Excited, rather than alarmed, 
she hurried from the chamber, and encountered at the head of the 
stairway the person of Lord Rawdon, who was joined a moment 
after by Watson Gray. His lordship saw her, and a smile, which 
was scarcely one of good nature, overspread his countenance as he 
remarked — 

“ Your rebel colonel is busy among us, Miss Middleton; — he is a 
bold fellow, but will pay for his rashness.” 

“ I told your lordship that you would soon find him, but he is 
even more easy of access than I thought him,” was the reply 


262 


THE SCOUT. 


of the maiden, who, at the moment, had forgotten everything that 
she had ever heard to her lover’s disadvantage, and now glowed with 
all the natural pride of one who joyed in the courage of her country- 
man. 

“ I trust that he will wait to receive my acknowledgments for his 
early attentions;” was the answer of his lordship, uttered through his 
closed teeth, as he hurried down the steps. 

But the wish of his lordship was not gratified. The alarm 
was not of long continuance, though, in the brief space of time 
which it had occupied, it had been sharp in equal degree, and 
the surprise of the camp had been made with as much success 
as its audacity deserved. The sentries had been hewn down at 
their posts, one patrol entirely cut off, and a party of the assailants, 
penetrating to the head of the avenue, had cut in pieces a half 
score of Hessians before they had well started from their slumbers. 
The whole affair had been the work of a few moments onty, and 
when the British were in condition to meet the invader, there 
was no enemy to be found. They had dissipated with the flexibil- 
ity of the atmosphere, in the obscure haze of which they com- 
pletely vanished from the eyes of the pursuing and vengeance-breath- 
ing soldiery. 

In the lower hall of the mansion, Lord Rawdon received the 
report of the officers of the night, to whom, it may be supposed, 
his countenance was in no respect gracious. Naturally stern of 
temper, the annoyance was calculated to increase its severity, 
and add to the habitual harshness of his manner. He stood 
against the chimney place, as the several officers in command 
made their appearance, and his keen eyes examined them with 
frowning expression from beneath the thick bushy brows, which were 
now contracted into one overhanging roof, and almost concealed the 
orbs in turn from the sight of those whom they surveyed. 
Sharp, indeed, was the examination which followed, and bitter, 
though brief, were the various comments which his lordship made on 
the several events of the evening as they were reported in his hear- 
ing. • 

“ Majoribanks,” said he, “you were in charge of the camp 
appointments for the night. You will make your full returns at 
morning of the officers on duty; and let them report to you the 


A MIDNIGHT ATTACK — A PRISONER. 


263 


names of the last relief. What is the report you make of the camp 
now? What is the killed, wounded, and missing? ” 

The portly, fine-looking, and truly noble officer whom he ad- 
dressed, answered with equal ease and dignity. 

“ The returns are ready for your lordship now,” placing the pa- 
pers iu his hands — “ this, your lordship will perceive, is the list of 
officers and guards on duty; and here is a brief summary of the killed 
and wounded, which are found. It will need an inspection of the 
rolls of companies to ascertain the missing, and this can not be so 
well done till daylight.” 

“ ’Tis well, sir — you are prompt and ready. I wish your officers 
of the night had known their duty so well.” And with this speech 
he bestowed upon the surrounding group a single glance of vexation 
and reproof. 

“Humph!” he exclaimed as he read — “Can it be possible! So 
many slain outright; good fellows too — not apt to sleep upon their 
posts” — and he enumerated with his voice and finger — “Fergus, 
Childs, Spohrs, Dilworth, Moony, Wagner — fourteen slain and as 
many wounded! D — nation! These rascals must have been drunk, or 
there has been treachery! ” 

He crumpled the memorandum in his hands, and, utterly unable 
to control his indignation, flung it from him, and trampled it on the 
fioor. 

“By heavens, these beggarly rebels will learn to walk by noon- 
day into our camps, and hew r and havoc where they think proper. 
The British name will be a subject for their mockery; and, as for 
our valor! — for shame, for shame, gentlemen; what will be thought 
of this proceeding ? what report shall I make of this conduct to our 
king ? ” 

He strode, unanswered, to and fro, along the unoccupied portion 
of the hall ; the officers, under his rebuke, looking with downcast 
eyes that did not once venture to meet his glance. 

“And what of the enemy, Majoribanks ? have they got off in 
utter safety ? If I mistake not, I heard a full platoon from the gren- 
• adiers ” 

“We have found but one dead body, your lordship 
* Indeed ! — but one body. Oh ! this is very rare success ! 
They will fight us all night, and every night, on the same 


THE SPOUT. 


264 

terms,” and his lordship laughed outright in very chagrin and 
bitterness. 

“ Arid one prisoner ; ” — continued Majoribanks. 

“ Ah: — one prisoner ! Well, you hung him, did you ? ” 

“ No, your lordship : we did not hang him ; ” was the cold but 
respectful answer of Majoribanks. “ We knew not that such a pro- 
ceeding would be either proper or desirable.” 

Rawdon’s eyes gleamed with a ■savage keenness of glance on the 
speaker, as he replied — 

“Ha ! j^ou did not, eh ? Well, let it be done instantly ! I will 
answer for its propriety. Gray,” he continued, turning to the scout, 
who stood at the entrance, “see to it. You shall be our provost for 
the occasion. Find out the nearest tree — not in sight of the dwel- 
ling, mark me — and let the rope be a good one. Let him be hung 
with due propriety.” 

Majoribanks turned away to conceal his emotion, while -Gray 
replied — 

“ May it please your lordship, it might be advisable to examine 
the person before hanging him. He can probably give you 
some valuable intelligence — something, perhaps, about ‘ Ninety- 
Six.’ ” 

‘ * True, true ! — it does please me. Bring him before us. I will 
examine him myself.” 

An officer disappeared, and a few moments only had elapsed 
when, conducted by a file of soldiers, our old associate John Bannis- 
kr was placed before the British commander. 


A REPRIEVE FROM THE GALLOWS. 


265 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A REPRIEVE FROM THE GALLOWS. 

The sturdy boatman of the Congaree was in no ways daunted 
when dragged into that imposing presence. On the contrary, 
his person seemed to have risen in elevation and acquired new 
erfectness, in defiance of ihe cords which secured his arms, and 
in spite of an evident halt in his walk, the consequence of some 
injury which he had probably sustained in the melee which had 
just taken place. An easy but not offensive smile was upon his 
countenance as he entered, and though erect and manly, there 
was nothing insolent or ostentatious in his carriage. He bowed 
his head respectfully, first to his lordship and then to the sur- 
rounding officers, and having advanced almost to the center of 
the room, paused in waiting and without a word. Rawdon sur- 
veyed his person with little interest, and was evidently annoyed by 
the coolness, deliberation, and conscious dignity of the woodman’s 
bearing. 

“Who are you, fellow ? ” he demanded. 

“My name’s John Bannister, your lordship. I’m a sort of scout- 
ing serjeant, when I’m in the woods, for Col. Conway’s rigiment; 
but with my hands hitched behind me, jest now, I don’t feel as if I 
was anybody.” 

“ Your sense of insignificance is more likely to be increased than 
diminished, fellow! Speak up and tell us what you know. Your 
master! Where is he now ? ” 

“Well, your lordship, if I’ve rightly larned my catechism, he’s 
looking down upon us now, and listening to every word that’s 
said.” 

“ See to the doors and windows,” exclaimed Rawdon hastily, 
as he put his hand upon his sword, while his flashing eyes 
turned to the windows of the apartment: — “who knows but we 

19 


266 


THE SCOUT. 


may have another visit from this audacious rebel. He has had every 
encouragement to come again.” 

A silent chuckle of the scout attested his satisfaction at the mis- 
take into which he had led his captor, in consequence of his peculiar 
modes of speech and thinking. 

“ What does the fellow mean by this insolence ? Speak, sirrah, 
ere I send you to the halbirds! ” 

“And if your lordship did, I reckon I should speak pretty 
much as I do now. Your lordship asked me where my master 
is; and as I know no master but God Almighty, I reckon I 
answered no more than rightly, when I said he was looking, jest 
this very moment, down upon our proceeding. By the catechis’ 
I was always taught that he was pretty much here, thar, and every 
wliar; — a sort of scout for the whole uni varse, that don’t want for 
any sleep, and never made a false count of the number sent out 
gin him ” 

“ Is the fellow mad ? ” demanded Rawdon, with impatience, inter- 
rupting the woodman, who seemed very well disposed to expatiate 
longer upon this copious subject. “ Who knows anything of this 
fellow ?” 

“I do, your lordship,” whispered Watson Gray, but in tones 
that reached the ears of Bannister. “He’s the same person that 1 
told you of to-night — lie’s the famous scout that Col. Cruger offered 
twenty guiueas for, for stealing his horse.” 

The last words awakened all Bannister’s indignation, which he 
expressed without heeding the presence in which he stood. 

“Look you, Watson Gray,” said lie, “that’s not so genteel, all 
things considerin’; and I’ll look to you to answer it some day. The 
horse was a fair prize, taken from the enemy’s quarters at the resk of 
my neck ” 

“That risk is not over, scoundrel; and that you may be made 
justly sensible of it, let the provost take him hence to a tree. 
Let it be done at once. We shall save Cruger his twenty 
guineas.” 

Here Watson Gray again whispered in the ears of his lord- 
ship. 

“ Ah, true,” said the latter; “ then addressing Bannister, he asked 
in accents of unusual mildness : — 


A REPRIEVE FROM THE GALLOWS. 


267 


“Are you willing to save your life, my good fellow? Speak 
quickly, for we have little time to waste, and you have none to 
spare.” 

“ Well, I reckon, your lordship, as I’m a good fellow, I oughtn’t 
to be af eared either to live or to die; though if the choice is given 
me, living’s my preference at this present. I might have a different 
choice next week, or even to-morrow, for anything I know jest 
now.” 

“ Too many words by half, sirrah. Hear me: you can save your 
life by proving yourself honest once in a way. Speak the truth to all 
the questions I ask you, and no prevarication.” 

“ I’ll try, your lordship,” said the scout quietly, as he turned a 
huge quid of tobacco in his mouth and voided it behind him on the 
floor, with a coolness which did not lessen his lordship’s indigna- 
tion. 

‘ ‘ How many men were with your colonel in this assault to- 
night?” 

“Well, about thirty men, I reckon — which wa’n’t more than 
half his force: t’other half played with the sentinels along the woods 
above. ” 

“ Thirty men! Was ever heard the like! Thirty men to beat up 
the quarters of a British general, and ride over a whole army of two 
thousand men! ” 

“ There’s more, I reckon, your lordship,” said Gray, in a whisper, 

‘ ‘ Colonel Conway sometimes has a whole regiment and I’ve seldom 
known him with less than a hundred.” 

“ Hark ye, fellow, if you are found in a falsehood, that instant I 
send you to the gallows,” exclaimed Rawdon, sternly, addressing the 
scout. 

“ And if your lordship believes a man that does his talking in a 
whisper, in preference to him that speaks out, it’s likely you’ll 
send all your prisoners thar. It’s no use for me to tell you the 
truth, when there’s a man behind you that’s been known on the 
Congaree, ever since I was knee-high to a splinter, to be a born 
liar. Ef he’s let, in a whisper, to out-talk a man that does his 
talking outright, and like a man, aboveboard, then there’s but 
little use in my opening my mouth at all. Ef you believe him, 
you can’t believe me — though, to speak a truth that there’s no 


268 


THE SCOUT. 


denying, I ain’t very willing to tell your lordship anything 
about the consarns of the troop. I’m jub’ous ef that ain’t treason- 
able.” 

“ You -are very scrupulous all at once, my fine fellow — but, 
whether you are believed or not, we shall still hear what you have to 
say. Does the garrison at ‘ Ninety-Six ’ hold out? ” 

“ I reckon not now. It did yesterday morning, but ’twas 
mighty hard pushed then; and as we caught all your messengers, 
and got all ybur letters to Colonel Cruger, I’m thinking lie’s given 
in, seeing there was no sort of chance of your lordship com- 
ing.” 

“ D — nation! I sent two messengers since Sunday.” 

“ I reckon your lordship’s count ain’t altogether right; for I 
myself caught three. I choked one chap till he emptied his 
throat of a mighty small scrap of intelligence that he had curled 
up like a piece of honest pigtail in his jaws; and we physicked 
another before he surrendered the screw-bullet that he swal- 
lowed. The third one gin up his paper like a good fellow, 
j’ined our troop, and helped us powerful well in the little brush 
we made in the avenue to-night. He’s a big fellow, a Dutch- 
man by birth, that come out of the forks of Edisto. His name’s 
a mighty hard one to spell, and I can’t say that I altogether 
remember it; but he showed us five guineas that your lordship 
gin him to go to ‘ Ninety-Six,’ and I reckon he’d ha’ gone if we 
hadn’t caught him. He fou’t powerful w r ell to-night, for I watched 
him.” 

John Bannister was evidently not the person from whom 
much intelligence could be extracted, though he was quite lib- 
eral in yielding that which it gave his lordship little pleasure to 
hear. Every w^ord which he uttered seemed to be peculiarly 
chosen to mortify his captors. Not that the worthy scout had 
any such intention, for he well knew the danger to himself of 
any such proceeding; and, as we have said before, his manner, 
though loftier than usual, was unobtrusive, and certainly never 
intended anything like insolence. His free speech came from 
his frank nature, which poured forth the honest feelings of his 
mind without much restraint, and utterly regardless of the situ- 
ation in which he stood. He was just sufficiently cautious to 


A REPRIEVE FROM THE GALLOWS. 


2G9 


baffle his examiners on every subject, the truth of which might affect 
unfavorably the troop and the service in which it was engaged. 
Rawdon soon discerned the character of the person with whom he 
had to deal ; and, provoked beyond patience by the annoying detail 
the scout had given of the capture of his three messengers, he thus 
summarily cut short the conference: 

“ You are a good scout, John Bannister, and your loss, I have no 
doubt, will be severely felt by your leader. Provost, take him to 
the end of the lane, give him three minutes for prayer, and then 
hang him to the tallest tree in front of the avenue. Let him hang 
till daylight, that the Irish regiments may see and take warning from 
the spectacle. It may cure a few of them of the disease of desertion, 
which is so apt to afflict so many. Go, my good Bannister, my provost 
will see to your remaining wants. I think your colonel will feel your 
loss very much. ,, 

“I’m jest now of the same opinion, your lordship,” replied the 
scout, composedly ; but I’m not thinking lie’s so nigh losing me alto- 
gether. I don’t think* my neck in so much danger yet, because I 
reckon your lordship won’t be so venturesome as to hang up a pris- 
oner-of-war, taken in an honest scrimmage.” 

“ Ah! that is your opinion. We differ! Take him hence, Provost, 
and do as I bid you. Let it be done at once. A short shrift saves 
many unpleasant reflections.” 

Such was the cool, stern decision of his lordship, to whose 
haughty mind the sang froid of Bannister w T as eminently in- 
sulting. 

“ I would jest like to let your lordship know before I leave you 

” was the beginning of another speech of Bannister’s, which the 

angry gesture of Rawdon did not suffer him to finish. The provost 
and his attendants seized on the prisoner, in obedience to the lifted 
finger of his lordship, and w T ere about to hurry him, still speaking, 
from the apartment, when they were stopped at the door by the sud- 
den entrance of Flora Middleton. 

“ Stay!” she exclaimed, addressing the officer — “stay, till ± nave 
spoken with his lordship.” 

Rawdon started back at beholding her, and could not refrain from 
expressing his surprise at her presence. 




270 


THE SCOUT. 


“ At this time of the night. Miss Middleton, and here ?” 

"Very improper conduct, your lordship would intimate, for a 
young lady ; hut the circumstances must excuse the proceeding. I 
come to you, sir, in behalf of this poor man, who is your prisoner, 
and whom I understand you are about to execute, in violation of Hie 
laws of humanity, and, as I believe, the laws of war.” 

His lordship was evidently annoyed. 

“You have chosen a very unnecessary labor, Miss Middleton, and 
pardon me if I think a very unbecoming one. I may be permitted, 
surely, to know what the laws of war require, and greatly regret that 
Miss Middleton cannot believe me sufficiently well informed in regard 
to those of humanity.” 

“Pardon me, my lord, if, in my excited emotions, my words 
should happen to offend. I do not mean offence. I would not in- 
trude upon a scene like this, and cannot think that my interposition 
to save life, and to prevent murder, can properly be called an unbe- 
coming interference.” 

“Murder!” muttered his lordship through his closed teeth, while 
— as if to prevent his frowns from addressing themselves to the fair 
intruder — he was compelled to avert his face. 

“Yes, my lord, murder ; for I know this man to be as worthy 
and honest a citizen as ever lived on the Congaree. He has always 
been my friend and the friend of the family. He has never 
vowed his loyalty to the king — never taken protection ; but, from 
the first, has been in arms, under either Pickens or Sumter, in op- 
position to his majesty. The fate of war throws him into your 
hands ” 

“And he must abide it, lady. He has been such a consistent 
rebel, according to your own showing, that he well deserve his fate. 
Provost, do your duty ! ” 

“ My lord, my lord, can it be that you will not grant my prayer — 
that you will not spare him? ” 

“ It would give me pleasure to grant any application to one so fair 
and friendly, but ” 

“Oh, deal not in this vain language at such a time, my 
lord. Do not this great wrong. Let not your military pride 
seduce you into an inhumanity which you will remember in after 
days with dread and sorrow. Already they charge you with 


A REPRIEVE FROM THE GALLOWS. 


271 


blood wantonly shed at Camden — too much blood — the blood 
of the old and young — of the gray -headed man and the beardless 
boy alike. But, I believe it not, my lord — no, no ! Turn not 
away from me in anger — I believe it not — I would not wish to 
believe it.” 

“ Too much, too much ! ” murmured Majoribanks, as he regarded 
the fair speaker, and saw the dark spot turn to crimson on the brow 
of the stern and savage captain. He well perceived, whatever 
might have been his hopes of her pleading before, that her last 
allusion to the Camden massacre had spoiled the effect of all. 

“ Your entreaty is in vain, Miss Middleton. The man is doomed. 
He shall be an example to warn others against shooting down sentinels 
at midnight.” 

“No! no! Be not inflexible — spare him; on my knees, I 
implore you, my lord. I have known him long, and always worthily ; 
he is my friend, and a noble-hearted creature. Send not such a 
fellow to the gallows ; send the ruffian, the murderer, the spy, but 
not a worthy man like this.” 

“ Rise, Miss Middleton ; I should be sorry to see you kneel, without 
succeeding in your prayer, either to God or mortal.” 

“You grant it, then !” she exclaimed eagerly, as he raised her 
from the floor. 

“ Impossible ! The man must die.” 

She recoiled from his hands, regarded him with a silent but seareh- 
ing expression of eye, then turned to the spot where John Bannister 
stood. The worth}' scout no longer remained unmoved. Her inter- 
position had softened the poor fellow, whom the threatening danger 
from his foes had only strengthened and made inflexible and 
firm. He now met her glance of bitterness and grief, while a smile 
mingled sweetly upon his face with the big tear which was swelling 
in his eye. 

“ God bless you, my dear Miss Flora ! — you’re an angel, if ever 
there was one on such a place as' airtli ; and I’m jest now 
thankful to God for putting me in this fix, ef it’s only that I 
might know how airnestly and sweetly he could send his angel 
to plead in favor of a rough old Congaree boatman like me. 
But don’t you be scared, for they can’t do me any hurt, after all ; 


THE SCOUT. 


/C i 

and if his lordship had only listened to me a leetle while longer 
at first, he’d ha’ been able to have said the handsome thing, and 
consented to all you axed him. Look here, my lord, ’twon’t do 
to hang me, unless you’d like to lose a better man in the bar- 
gain.” 

A look of inquiry was all that his lordship deigned the 
speaker, who, turning to the provost, begged him to take his 
grasp from his shoulder. 

“ I can’t run, you see, ef I wanted to, and somehow I never 
could talk to my own liking, when I had the feel of an inemy’s 
hand upon me.” 

“ Speak up, fellow,” said Majoribanks, who saw the increas- 
ing vexation of Rawdon, “ and tell his lordship what you mean.” 

“ Well, the long and short of the matter’s this, your lordship. 
If you look at your roll, I reckon you’ll find a handsome young 
cappin, or mou’t-be a major, among your missing. I made him 
a prisoner myself, at the head of the avenue, on the very first 
charge to-night, and I know they’ve got him safe among my 
people ; and his neck must be a sort of make-weight agin mine 
1 ain’t of much ’count anyhow, but the ‘ Congaree Blues’ has a 
sort of liking for me, and they can find any quantity of rope and 
tree when there’s a need for it. If you hang me, they’ll hang 
him, and your lordship can tell best whether he’s worth looking 
after or not. It’s a thing for calculation only.” 

“ Is this the case \ Is there any officer missing demanded 
Rawdon, with a tone of suppressed but bitter feeling. 

“ Two, your lordship,” replied the lieutenant of the night — 
‘ Major Penfield and Captain Withers.” 

“ They should hang ! They deserve it !” exclaimed Rawdon; 
but an audible murmur from the bottom of the hall, warned him 
of the danger of trying experiments upon the temper of troops 
who had just effected a painful forced march, and had before 
them a continuation of the same, and even severer duties. 

“ Take the prisoner away, and let him be well guarded,” said 
his lordship. 

Flora Middleton, relieved by this order, gave but a single 
glance of satisfaction to the woodman, as she glided out of the 
apartmen* 


A REPRIEVE FROM THE GALLOWS. 


273 


With the dawn of day the British army was under arms, and 
preparing to depart. Our heroine, who had enjoyed no res* 
during the night, and had felt no desire for it, under the numer- 
ous anxieties and painful feelings which filled her heart, took 
her station in the balcony, where she could witness all their 
movements. And no more imposing array had ever gratified 
her eyes. Lord Rawdon was then in command of the very elite of 
the British army. The hardy and well-tried provincial loyalists 
formed the nucleus of the efficient force of near three thou- 
sand men, which he commanded ; and these, many of them well 
mounted, and employed as dragoons and riflemen at pleasure, 
were, in reality, the chief reliance of his government. The 
Hessians had been well thinned by the harassing warfare of two 
seasons, and were neither numerous nor daring ; but nothing 
could exceed the splendid appearance of the principal force 
which he brought with him from Charleston, consisting of three 
full regiments, fresh from Ireland, with all the glow of European 
health upon their cheeks, full-framed, strong and active ; martial 
in their carriage, bold in action, and quite as full of vivacity as 
courage. 

Flora Middleton beheld them as they marched forward be- 
neath her eyes, with mingling sentiments of pity and admiration. 
Poor fellows ! They were destined to be terribly thinned and 
humbled by the sabre of the cavalry, the deadly aim of the rifle, 
and that more crushing enemy of all, the pestilential malaria of 
the southern swamps. How many of that glowing and nume- 
rous cavalcade were destined to leave their bones along the 
banks of the Wateree and Santee, in their long and arduous 
marchings and counter-marchings, and in the painful and peril- 
ous flight which followed to the Eutaws, and from the Eutaws 
to Charleston. On this flight, scarce two months after, fifty of 
these brave fellows dropped down dead in the ranks, in a single 
day ; the victims of fatigue, heat, and a climate which mocked 
equally their muscle, their courage and vivacity ; and which 
not even the natives at 'that season could endure without peril. 
The brave and generous Majoribanks himself — the most honor- 
able and valiant of enemies — little did Flora Middleton fancy, 
as he passed his sword-point to the earth in courteous salute, 


THE SCOUT. 


2r,4 


/ 

/ 


and smiled liis farewell, while marching at the head of his bat 
talion beneath the balcony, that he, too, was one of those wln> 
should find his grave along the highways of Carolina, immedi- 
ately after the ablest of his achievements at Eutaw, where to 
him, in particular, was due the rescue of the British lion from 
the claAVS of the now triumphant eagle. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

NINETY-SIX — A FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 

Clarence Conway, with a single exception, had every rea- 
son to be satisfied with the result of his expedition. He had 
lost but one man slain ; and but two were missing. One of these, 
as Ave have seen, A\ r as John Bannister; the other Avas the un- 
happy father of Mary Clarkson. The reader is already ap- 
prized of the situation of the former ; of the latter neither party 
had any present knowledge. Conway Avas utterly ignorant, 
and very anxious about the fate of his trusty agent. The loss 
of John Bannister could not be compensated to him, by any suc- 
cesses, whether as a soldier or a man. He was incomparable 
as a scout ; almost as much so in personal conflict ; superior in 
judgment in most matters relating to partisan warfare ; but, over 
all, he Avas the friend, the ever-faithful, the fond ; having an 
affection for his leader like that of Jonathan of old, surpassing 
the loA r e of Avoman. 

Clarence Conway did full justice to this affection. He loitered 
and lingered long that night before leaving the field of conflict, 
in the hope to- see the trusty fellow reappear; and sIoav indeed 
were his parting footsteps when, at the dawn of day, he set his 
little band in motion for the Saluda. This measure was iioav 
become one of stern necessity. He had done all that could be 
required of him, and much more than had been expected. It 
was not supposed that Avitli a force so small as his he could pos- 
sibly occasion any interruption or delay in the progress of an 


NINETY-SIX — A PLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


276 


army such as that led by Rawdon ; and he had most effectually 
performed those duties along the Congaree which had been 
done 1 y Sumter and Marion on the waters of the Santee below. 
Every messenger between Rawdon and Ninety-Six had been 
cut off ; and, while the urgent entreaties of Cruger, having com- 
mand of the latter garrison, had failed in most cases to reach the 
ears of Rawdon, the despatches of the latter, promising assistance, 
and urging the former to hold out, had been invariably inter- 
cepted. Nor were the performances of the gallant young parti- 
san limited to these small duties only. He had, in concert 
with Colonel Butler, a famous name among the whigs of Ninety- 
Six, given a terrible chastisement to the sanguinary tory, Cun- 
ningham, in which the troop of the latter was utterly annihi- 
lated, and their leader owed his escape only to the fleetness 
of an inimitable steed. But these events belong not to our 
story. 

With a sad heart, but no diminution of enterprise or spirit, 
Colonel Conway took up the line of march for the Saluda, with 
the purpose of joining General Greene before Ninety-Six ; or, 
in the event of that place being already in possession of the 
Americans, of extending his march toward the mountains, where 
General Pickens was about to operate against the Cherokee 
Indians. 

But though compelled to this course by the pressure of the 
British army in his rear, his progress was not a flight. His lit- 
tle band was so compact, and so well acquainted with the face 
of the country, that he could move at leisure in front of the en- 
emy, and avail himself of every opportunity for cutting off strag- 
glers, defeating the operations of foraging parties, and baffling 
every purpose or movement of the British, which was not cov- 
ered by a detachment superior to his own. Such was his pur- 
pose, and such, to a certain extent, were his performances. 

But Conway was soon made sensible of the inefficiency of his 
force to contend even with the inferior cavalry of the enemy 
These were only inferior in quality. In point of numbers they 
were vastly superior to the Americans. The measures which 
R *wdon had taken to mount the loyalists in his army, had, to 
he great surprise of the Americans, given him a superiority in 


*276 


THE SCOUT. 


this particular, which was equally injurious to their hopes and 
unexpected by their apprehensions. The march of the British, 
though urged forward with due diligence by their stern com- 
mander, was, at the same time, distinguished by such a degree 
of caution as effectually to discourage Conway in his attempts 
upon it. The onslaught of the previous night justified the pm- 
'deuce of this wary general. The audacity of the Americans 
was, at this period, everywhere felt and acknowledged, and bj 
none more readily than Rawdon. His advanced guard was sent 
forward in treble force : his provincial riflemen skirted the 
woods on the roadside while his main army defiled between, and 
his cavalry scoured the neighboring thickets wherevel* it was 
possible for them to hide a foe. Conway was compelled to con- 
sole himself with the profitless compliment which this vigilance 
paid to his spirit and address ; and, after hovering for the best 
part of a day’s march around the path of the advancing enemy, 
without an opportunity to inflict a blow, he reluctantly pressed 
forward with increased speed for Ninety-Six, to prepare General 
Greene for the coming of the new enemy. Our course is thither 
also. 

The post of Ninety-Six was situated on the crown of a gentle 
but commanding eminence, and included w’ithin its limits the vil 
lage of the same name. This name was that of the county, or 
district, of which it was. the county-town. Its derivation is 
doubtful ; but most probably it came from its being ninety-six 
miles from Prince George, at the period of its erection the fron- 
tier post of the colony. Its history is one of great local interest. 
Originally a mere stockade for the defence of the settlers against 
Indian incursion, it at length became the scene of the first con- 
flicts in the southern country, and perhaps in the revolutionary 
war. It was here that, early in 1775, the fierce domestic strife 
first began between the wliigs and tories of this region ; — a re- 
gion beautiful and rich by nature, and made valuable by art, 
which, before the war was ended, was turned into something 
worse than a howling wilderness. The old stockade remained 
at the beginning of the Revolution, and when the British overran 
the state, they garrisoned the place, and it became one of the 
most valuable of that cordon of posts which they established 


NINETY-SIX A FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


277 


around and within it. Its protection and security were of the last 
importance to their interests. It enabled them to maintain & 
communication with the Cherokees and other Indians ; and to 
keep in check the whig settlements on the west of it, while it 
protected those ^ the loyalists, north, south, and east. The 
most advanced post which they occupied, its position served to 
strengthen their influence in Camden and Augusta, and assisted 
them to overawe the population of Georgia and North Carolina 
It was also, for a long period, the chief depot of recruits ; and 
drew, hut too successfully, the disaffected youth of the neighbor 
hood into the royal embrace. 

The defences of this place had been greatly strengthened on 
the advance of the American army. Colonel Cruger, an Ameri- 
can loyalist, who was intrusted with the command, was an offi- 
cer of energy and talents, and proved himself equally adequate 
and faithful to the trust which was reposed in him. Calling in 
the aid of the neighboring slaves, he soon completed a ditch 
around his stockade, throwing the earth parapet height upon it, 
and securing it within, by culverts and traverses, to facilitate 
the communication in safety between his various points of de- 
fence. His ditch was further secured by an abattis ; and, at 
convenient distances within the stockade, he erected strong 
block-houses of logs. 

But the central and most important point in his position, lay 
in a work of considerable strength — which the curious in anti- 
quarian research and history may see to this day in a state of 
comparative perfectness — called the “ Star Battery/’ It stool 
on the southeast of the village which it effectually commanded, 
was in shape of a star, having sixteen salient, and returning an- 
gles, and communicated by lines with the stockade. In this 
were served three pieces of artillery, which, for more ready 
transition to any point of danger, were worked on wheel cai 
riages. 

On the north side of the village arises A copious fountain, of 
several eyes, which flows through a valley. From this rivulet 
the garrison obtained its supplies of water. The county prison, 
lying contiguous to this valley and commanding it, was also forti- 
fied; as v '3 another s J ockade fort, lying on the opposite side of 


278 


THE SCOUT. 


che valley, of considerable strength, and Laving within it a 
couple of block-houses which assisted in covering the communi- 
cation with the spring. A covert way led from the town to the 
rivulet ; and the whole, including the village, was enclosed by 
lines of considerable extent and height. To defend his position, 
Oruger had a select force of six hundred men, many of them rifle- 
men of the first quality, and not a few of them fighting, as they 
w ell knew, with halters about their necks. 

Greene commenced the siege under very inauspicious circum- 
stances and with a force quite inadequate to his object. This 
siege formed one of the most animated and critical occurrences 
during the southern war, and had already lasted near a month, 
when Colonel Conway joined his little troop to the force of the 
commander-in-chief. The available army of Greene scarcely 
exceeded that of ..Cruger. He had no battering cannon ; and 
here was no mode of succeeding against this “ Star” redoubt, 
which was the chief point of defence, but in getting over or 
under it. Both modes were resolved upon. Regular approaches 
were made, and, on the completion of the first parallel, a mine was 
begun under cover of a battery erected on the enemy’s right 

This work was prosecuted day and night. No interval wa£ 
permitted. One party labored, while a second slept, and a third 
guarded both. The sallies of the besieged were constant and 
desperate ; not a night passed without the loss of life on both 
sides ; but the work of the Americans steadily advanced. The 
second parallel was at length completed, the enemy summoned 
t ? surrender, and a defiance returned to the demand. The third 
parallel was then begun, and its completion greatly facilitated 
by the invention of a temporary structure of logs, which, from 
the inventor’s name, were called the “ Maharn towers.” These 
were, in fact, nothing more than block-houses, constructed of 
heavy timbers, raised to a height superior to that of the belea- 
guered fort, and filled with riflemen. These sharp-shooters suc- 
ceeded, in a little time, in driving the artillerists of the garrison 
from their guns. Hot shot were tried to destroy the towers, but 
the greenness of the wood, in June, rendered the effort unavail- 
ing. The artillery of the “ Star” could no longer be used by 
daylight, and by night it was little to be dreaded 


NINETY-SIX — A FLIGHT BENIGHT. * 279 

The garrison was now greatly straitened. Their provisions 
were fast failing them ; they could no longer venture for water 
to the rivulet. Women were employed for this purpose by day- 
light, and men in women’s clothing ; and by night they received 
their supplies with the help of naked negroes. Other means 
were found for conveyance. Burning arrows -were shot into the 
fort, but Cruger promptly threw off the roofs of his houses. 
An attempt was made to destroy the abattis by lire, but drew 
down death on every one of the daring fellows who attempted 
it. Beside the " Maliam towers,” one of which was within thirty 
yards of the enemy’s ditch, the besiegers had erected several 
batteries for cannon. One of these, twenty feet in height, and 
within one hundred and forty yards of the “ Star,” so com- 
pletely commanded it, that it became necessary to give its para- 
pet an increased elevation. Bags of sand were employed for 
this purpose. Through these, apertures were left for the use of 
small-arms ; and the removal of the sand-bags by night, gave 
room for the use of the artillery. Bloody and deadly was the 
strife that ensued for ten days, between the combatants. Dur- 
ing this period not a man could show himself, on either side, 
without receiving a shot. As the conflict approached its 
termination it seemed to acquire increased rancor; and an 
equal desperation, under different motives, appeared to govern 
both parties. 

This could not be sustained long ; and the fall of the garrison 
was at hand. Cruger still held out in the hope of succor, for 
which he had long implored his commander. He had sufficient 
reasons, apart from the natural courage which the good soldier 
may possess, for making him defend his post to the very last 
extremity. There were those within its walls to whom no in- 
dulgence would have been extended by its captors — men whose 
odious crimes and bloody deeds had long since forfeited the se- 
curity even of those laws which are allowed to temper with 
mercy the brutalities of battle. But their apprehensions, and 
the resolution of Cruger, could not long supply the deficiencies 
under which the besieged were suffering. Only two days more 
were allotted them for the retention of a post which they had so 
gallantly defended. But these two days were of the last im- 


23u 


THE SCOUT. 

portance for good or evil to the two parties. In this period the 
American commander was apprized of the circumstances whicli 
rendered it necessary that the place should be carried by assault 
or the siege raised. The arrival of, Conway announced the ap- 
proach of Rawdon, and the same night furnished the same im- 
portant intelligence to Cruger. But for this intelligence that 
very night must have witnessed the surrender of the post. 

The circumspection and close watch which had been maintain- 
ed so long and so well by the American general and his able 
subordinates, -and which had kept the garrison in utter ignorance 
of the march of Rawdon from Charleston, was defeated at the 
last and most important moment from a quarter which had ex- 
cited no suspicions. The circumstance has in it no small portion 
of romance. A young lady, said to be beautiful, and certainly 
bold — the daughter of one tried patriot and the sister of an- 
other — had formed in secret a matrimonial connection with a 
British officer, who was one of the besieged. Her residence 
was in the neighborhood, and she was countenanced, in visiting 
the camp with a flag, on some pretence of little moment. She 
was received with civility and dined at the general’s table. 
Permitted the freedom of the encampment, she was probably 
distinguished by her lover from the redoubt, and contrived to 
convey by signs the desire which she entertained to make some 
communication to the besieged. The ardor of the lover and 
the soldier united to infuse a degree of audacity into his bosom, 
which prompted him to an act of daring equally bold and suc- 
cessful. He acknowledged her signal, darted from the redoubt, 
received her verbal communication, and returned in safety 
amidst a shower of bullets from the baffled and astonished sen- 
tinels. Such is the story told by tradition. It differs little 
from that which history relates, and in no substantial particular ; 
what is obscure in the tale, but increases what is romantic. The 
feu de joie of the besieged and their loud Iiuzzas apprized the 
American general of their new hopes ; and too plainly assured 
him that his labor was taken in vain. 

Colonel Conway was admitted that night to the tent of the 
general, where a council of war was to be held as to the course 
now to be pursued, (jrreene necessarily presided. Unmoved 


NINETY -SIX — A PLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


281 

by disappointment, anembarrassecl by the probable defeat of his 
hopes and purposes, this cheerful and brave soldier looked 
around him with a smile of good humor upon his military family 
while he solicited their several opinions. His fine manly face, 
bronzed by the fierce glances of the southern sun, and height- 
ened by an eye of equal spirit and benevolence, wore none o. 
that dark disquietude and sullen ferocity, the sure token 'U 
vindictive and bad feelings, which scowled in the whole visage 
of his able opponent, Rawdon. A slight obliquity of vision, 
the result of small-pox in his youth, did not impair the sweetness 
of his glance, though it was sufficiently obvious in the eye 
which it affected. Conway had seen him more than once be- 
fore, but never to so much advantage as now, when a defeat so 
serious as that which threatened his hopes, and rendered ne- 
cessary the measure of consultation then in hand. He looked 
for the signs of peevishness and vexation but he saw none 
Something of anxiety may have clouded the brow of the com- 
mander but such an expression only serves to ennoble the coun- 
tenance of the man whose pursuits are elevated and whose per- 
formances are worthy. Anxiety makes the human countenance 
only the more thoroughly and sacredly human. It is the sign 
of care, and thought, and labor, and hope — of all the moral 
attributes which betoken the mind at work, and most usually at 
its legitimate employments. 

On the right hand of Greene sat one who divided between 
himself and the commander-in-chief the attention of the ardent 
young partisan. This was the celebrated polish patriot Kos- 
ciuzko. He had served throughout the siege as chief engineer, 
and, under his guidance, the several approaches had been made. 
His tall, erect, military form, pale, thin and melancholy features, 
light brown hair, already thinned above his lofty brow, together 
with the' soft blue eye which lightened them up at moments 
with almost girlish animation, seemed to the mind of Conway 
inexpressibly touching. The fate and name of Kosciuzko were 
so intimately connected with those of his country, that the eye 
of the spectatoi beheld the miseries of Poland in the sad 
features of its melancholy exile. His words, few, and sweet- 
ened as it were b’y the imperfect English in which they were 


282 


THE SCOUT. 


expressed, riveted the attention of all, and were considered with 
•narked deference by the commander, to whom they were ad- 
Iressed. 

There were many other brave men at that council-board, 
some of whom Clarence Conway now beheld for the first time, 
"/hose deeds and reputation had reached his ears, and whose 
persons he now examined with momently-growing interest. 

There was Lee of the legion, whom Greene emphatically styled 
the eye and wing of his army ; Campbell of the Virginians, who 
subsequently fell at the Eutaw, while bravely leading on his com- 
mand ; Kirkwood of the Delawares, happily designated as the 
continental Diomed, a soldier of delightful daring; Howard of the 
Marylanders ; Rudolph of the legion, Armstrong, and Benson, 
and others, whose presence would enlighten any council-board, 
as their valor had done honor to every field in which they 
fought. Our hero had enough to do, after conveying to the 
council all his intelligence, to note and study the features uf 
his associates — to weigh the words which they uttered — and to 
endeavor, for himself, to judge in what degree they severally 
deserved the high reputations which they bore. He was not 
disposed or prepared, perhaps, to offer any suggestions himself. 
He was better pleased to study and to listen. 

The consultation was brief. The points to be discussed were 
few. 

“ You perceive, gentlemen,” said Greene, opening the pro 
ceedings, “ that our toils appear to have been all taken in vain. 
Apprized of Lord Rawdon’s approach, the garrison will now 
hold out until the junction is effected, and for that we can not 
wait ; we are in no condition to meet Lord Rawdon single- 
handed. Colonel Conway, -whose exertions merit my warmest 
acknowledgments, represents his force as quite too formidable 
for anything that we can oppose to him. He brings with him 
three fresh regiments from Ireland, the remains of the regiment 
of Boze, near six hundred loyalists whom he has mounted as 
cavalry, besides Coffin’s dragoons— in all, an army little short 
of three thousand men. To this we can oppose scarce eight 
hundred in camp and fit for duty ; Marion and Sumter are too 
far, and too busy below, to leave me any hope of tlieir coopera- 


NINETY-SIX — A FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


283 


tion before Rawdon comes within striking distance ; and the 
presence of his lordship in such force will bring out Cunningham 
and Harrison, with all their loyalists, who will give sufficient 
employment for Pickens and Washington above. Retreat be- 
comes absolutely necessary ; but shall our labors here for the 
last month be thrown away] Shall we give up ‘Ninety-Six' 
without a struggle? Shall we not make the effort to win 
the post, and behind its walls prepare for the reception 
Rawdon ?” 

The unanimous opinion of the council tallied with the wishes 
of the commander. The assault was resolved upon. The 
necessary orders were given out that night, and the army was 
all in readiness on the morning of the 18th of June to make the 
final attempt. The forlorn hope w r as led, on the American left, 
against the * Star’ battery, by Lieutenants Seldon and Duval. 
Close behind them followed a party furnished with hooks fast- 
ened to staves, whose particular duty it was to pull down the 
sand-bags which the enemy had raised upon their parapet. 
Colonel Campbell next advanced to the assault at the head of 
the first Maryland and Virginian regiments. These all marched 
under cover of the approaches, until they came within a few 
yards of the enemy’s ditch. Major Rudolph commanded the 
forlorn hope on the American right against the stockade, sup- 
ported by the legion infantry, and Kirkwood’s Delawares. The 
forts, the rifle-towers, and all the American works, were manned 
and prepared to sweep the enemy’s parapet, previous to the 
advance of the storming party. Duval and Seldon were to 
clear the abattis and occupy the opposite curtain, then, driving 
off the enemy, were to open the way for the workmen. The 
sand-bags pulled down, Campbell was to make the attack, avail- 
ing himself of their aid in clambering up the parapet. To 
Colonel Lee was left the assault upon the stockades, of which, 
when obtained, he was simply to keep possession and wait 
events. 

A discharge of artillery at noon was the signal for the assault, 
which was followed by the prompt, movement of the storming 
parties. An uninterrupted blaze of artillery and small-arms 
covered the advance of the forloni hope j and, enveloped in its 


284 


THE SCOUT. 


shadowing smokes, this gallant little hand leaped the ditch and com- 
menced the work of destruction. 

But the besieged who had so bravely and for so long a time 
defended their ramparts, and whom the approach of Lord Raw- 
don had inspired with fresh confidence and courage, was prepared 
for their reception. They met the attack with equal cool- 
ness and determination. The assailants were encountered by 
bristling bayonets and leveled pikes, which lined the para- 
pet, while a stream of fire, poured forth from intervals between 
the sand-bags, was productive of dreadful havoc among them. 
The form of the redoubt gave to the besieged complete command 
over the ditch, and subjected the besiegers to a cross- 
fire, which the gradual removal of the abattis only tended 
to increase. 

For the details of this action, the reader will look to other his- 
tories. Enough if, in dealing with this (to us) purely episodical 
matter, we give the result. The attempt was desperate ; but so was 
the hope. The Americans fought well, but on the most unfortunate 
terms of combat. This is not the place to criticise the transaction ; 
but some day, the military critic will find it instructive to review 
this, among other great actions of our revolutionary war, and will be 
able to point out clearly the miserable mistakes, the result of 
equal ignorance and imbecility, by which the native valor of 
the people were continually set at naught. There were mistakes 
enough in this siege and assault of ‘ Ninety-Six,’ to decide 
the latter before it was begun. Enough now, that the day 
was lost almost as soon as begun. The hope of the assailants, small 
at the beginning, was very soon utterly dissipated ; and 
mortified and pained, less at being baffled than at the loss of 
so many brave men, Greene gave the orders which discontinued the 
assault. 

Yet, for near three-quarters of an hour, did these brave fel- 
lows persist, notwithstanding the fall of two-thirds of their num- 
ber and both their leaders. This daring and enduring courage 
enabled them to occupy the curtain, and maintain, hand to hand, 
the conflict with the garrison. They yielded at length, rather 
to the summons of their commander than to their own fear of 
danger. The greater part of their men were killed or wounded 


NINETY-SIX — A PLIGHT BY NIGHT. 285 

but the latter were brought off amid the hottest fire of the 
garrison. 

The misfortunes of Greene did not end here. The British general 
was at hand, and the dead being buried, the American commander 
struck his tents and commenced the retreat which carried Clarence 
Conway still further from a region in which all his feelings and anx- 
ieties were now deeply and doubly interested. We will not attempt 
to pursue his flight, but, retracing our steps in a quarter to which he 
dare not turn, we will resume our march along with that of the Brit- 
ish army, when they left the Middleton baron} r to advance upon 
Ninety-Six. 

But, in going back to Brier Park, it is not our purpose at this time 
to trespass again upon its inmates. We shall simply join company 
with our ancient friend, John Bannister, and trace his progress, as a 
prisoner, in the train of his captors. 

Watson Gray — having been intrusted by Lord Rawdon with 
the exclusive disposition of this business, in consequence, of the 
suggestions which the latter had made him the night before — 
had very naturally assigned the custody of the scout to the 
Black Riders, of whom, under a roving commission, Gray ranked 
as an inferior officer. He had every reason for believing the 
charge to be a secure one. Bannister had long been an object 
of dislike and apprehension to this troop, as he had on several occa- 
sions discovered their most secret haunts, and beaten up 
their quarters. His skill in * the woods was proverbial, and 
dreaded by all his enemies accordingly ; and the recent display 
which he had made in the case of Gray himself, of that readi- 
ness of resource which had rendered him famous, was very well 
calculated to mortify the latter, and make him desirous of sub 
jecting his own captor to all the annoyance likely to follow 
captivity. 

Whatever may have been the motives by which he was 
governed in this proceeding, it w T as very evident that Supple 
Jack could not have been put into less indulgent custody. But 
circumstances baffle the wisest in spite of all precautions ; and 
events which are utterly beyond human foresight suddenly arise 
to confound all the calculations of the cunning. John Bannister 
found a friend among the Black Riders when lie little expected 


286 


THE SCOUT 


one. When the enemy came to a halt that night, which w r as not 
till a tolerably late hour, their camp was made on the northern 
side of the Little Saluda, just within the line of the present 
district of Edgefield ; a commanding spot w r as chosen for the 
bivouac, and every precaution taken to secure it from disturbance 
for the night. 

The preparations for supper produced the customary stir and 
excitement for a while ; but the supper itself was soon discussed. 
Excessive fatigue had lessened appetite, and sleep w y as alone 
desirable to the regiments, which had been pressed forward to 
the utmost of their marching powers, from the very first moment 
of their leaving Charleston. The intense heat of the climate, 
at that season, made this task an inappreciably severe one. 
The duties of the cavalry had been, if possible, still more severe 
than those of the infantry ; compelled, as they constantly w T ere, 
to make continual and large circuits through the country, 
around the line of march of the army, in order to defeat the 
perpetual ambuscades of the Americans, who, in small parties, 
hovered about the march, and made frequent dashes, which were 
almost as successful as frequent, whenever opportunity, or re- 
missness of the enemy seemed to invite adventure. For the 
first time, for a long period, the circumstances of the campaign 
seemed to promise impunity to the encampment ; and, with a 
pleasant feeling of relief, the British troops prepared to make 
the most of their securities. Rest, repose, sleep — these were 
now the only objects of desire ; and the several groups crouched 
about beneath the forest trees ; without much pause or choice, 
sinking down simply in the shade, upon the dry leaves, with 
cloak or blanket wrapped about them. 

The Black Riders w r ere stationed beside a grove which skirted 
one of the forks of the Little Saluda, and were not the last to 
avail themselves of the general privilege of sleep. A few trees 
sufficed to cover their entire troop, and they clustered together 
in several small bodies, the horses of each group being fastened 
to swinging limbs of trees close to those /which sheltered their 
rider.;, in order that they might be ready at hand in any sudden 
emergency. 

In the centre of one of these squads lay John Bannister. He 


NINETY-SIX — A FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


287 


was bound hand and foot ; the bandages upon the latter mem 
t.ers being only put on for sleeping purposes, to be withdrawn 
when the march was resumed. A few rods distant, paced a 
sturdy sentinel, to whom the double duty was entrusted of keep- 
ing equal watch upon the horses and the prisoner. With this 
exception, Bannister was almost the only person whose eyes 
were unsealed by slumber in the encampment of the dragoons, 
lie was wakeful through anxiety and thought; for, though one 
of the most cheerful and elastic creatures breathing, he had toe 
many subjects of serious apprehension, to suffer him to enjoy 
that repose which his body absolutely needed. There was yet 
another reason to keep him wakeful. He was very far from 
being resigned to his fate. He had no taste for the condition of 
the prisoner ; and the moment that found him a captive found 
him meditating schemes for his own deliverance. His plans had 
reference to himself entirely. He was one of those self depend- 
ent people, who never care to look abroad for those resources 
which may be found within ; and, closing his eyes where he 
lay, and affecting the sleep which he could not obtain, he wea- 
ried himself with the examination of a hundred different plans 
for escaping from his predicament. 

While he lay in this position he heard some one approach and 
speak to the sentinel. A brief dialogue ensued between them, 
carried on in terms quite too low to be distinguished by him ; 
but the tones of the stranger’s voice seemed familiar to the ear 
of the listener. Bannister opened his eyes and discerned the 
two persons ; but, in consequence of the umbrage of the trees 
between, he could only see their lower limbs ; after a while one 
of them disappeared, and fancying that it was the stranger, and 
that the sentinel would again resume his duties, the prisoner 
again shut his eyes and tried to resume the train of meditation 
which the intrusion had disturbed. He had not long been thus 
engaged when he was startled by the low accents of some one 
speaking behind the trunk of the tree against which his head 
was leaned, and addressing him by name. 

Who speaks V* he demanded, in the same whispering tone* 
in ^ hich he had been addressed 
“ \ friend.” 


288 


THE SCOUT. 


“Wlio?” 

“Muggs.” ♦ 

“What, Isaacs?” 

“The same.” 

“Ah, you varmint ! after I convarted you, you’ll still follow the 
British.” 

“Hush!” whispered the other, with some trepidation in his 
tones. “ For God’s sake, not so loud. Stockton and Darcy and two 
more are just under the oaks to the left, and I’m jub’ous they’re half 
awake now.” 

“ But how come you here, Muggs ?” 

“ Why, nateral enough. I liearn the army was on its march, and 
I reckoned there was guineas to he got by way in exchange for rum 
and sugar ; so I hitched horse and wagon together, and turned 
sutler for the troop as I used to ; and mighty glad are they to 
see me ; and mighty glad I am to see you, Jack Bannister, and 
to try and give you a help out of your hitch.” 

“I’m jub’ous of you, Isaac Muggs. I’m afeard you ain’t had 
a full convarsion.” 

“ Don’t you be afeard. Trust to me.” 

“How? Trust to you for what? Will you loose me — git 
me a horse and a broadsword — hey ? Can you do this for the 
good cause, Isaac and prove your convarsion ? ” 

“Don’t talk, but turn on your side a leetle, so that I can feel 
where your hands are tied. Be quick — I hain’t much time to 
spare. Ben Geiger, who is your sentry, is gone to my wagon to 
get a drink, and will be back pretty soon, and I’m keeping watch 
for him, and a mighty good watch I’ll keep.” 

“There — cut, Muggs, and let me git up; but you must cut 
the legs loose too. They’ve hitched me under and over, as ef I 
was a whole team by myself.” 

“And so you are, John Bannister; but you mustn’t git up 
when I cut you loose.” 

“Thunder! and why not, Muggs ? Wliat’s the use of losing 
foot and fingers, if one’s not to use them ? ” 

“ Not jest yet ; because that’ll be getting Ben Geiger into a 
scrape, and me at the back of it. You must wait till he’s 
cliafiged for another sentry, and till I gives the signal. I’ll 


NINETY-SIX — A FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


289 


whistle for you the old boat-horn tune that’s carried you many 
a long night along the Congaree — you remember? Well, when 
you hear that you may know that the sentry’s changed. Then 
watch the time, and when the t’other sentinel draws off toward 
the horses, you can crawl through them gum-buslies on all fours 
and git into the bay. As for the horse, I’m jub’ous there’s no 
getting one easy. They’ll make too much trampling. But I’ll 
meet you on t’other side of the bay, and bring you a pistol, or 
sword, or whatever I cap find.” 

“ Well, well ! You bring the sword and pistol. It’ll be 
mighty hard, where there’s so many, if I can’t find the nag 
myself. ” 

“ Work your hands,” said the landlord. 

“They’re free! they’re free!” was the exulting response of 
the scout, almost too loudly expressed for prudence. 

“Hush, for God’s sake! and don’t halloo until you’re out of 
the bush. Take the knife now in your own hands, and cut 
loose your feet. But you must lie quiet, and let the ropes rest 
just where they are. Make b’lieve you’re asleep till you hear 
my whistle, and then crawl off as if you were all belly, and 
wriggle away as quiet as a blacksnake. I must leave you now. 
It’s a’most time for Ben Geiger to get back.” 

The scout did not await a second suggestion to apply the keen 
edge of the hunter’s knife, which the landlord furnished him, to 
the cords which fastened his feet. These he drew up repeatedly 
with the satisfaction of one who is pleased to exercise and enjoy 
the unexpected liberty which he receives; but the suggestions 
of the landlord, which were certainly those of common sense, 
warned him to limit these exercises, and restrain his impatient 
members, till the time should arrive for using them with advan- 
tage He accordingly composed himself and them, in such a 
manner as to preserve the appearance of restraint; arranged the 
perfect portions of the ropes above his ankles, and tucked in the 
several ends between and below. Then, passing his hands be- 
hind him, as before, he lay on his back outstretched with all the 
commendable patience of a stoic philosopher awaiting the opera- 
tions of that fate with which he holds it folly if not impertinence 
to interfere. 


290 


THE SCOUT. 


The landlord; meanwhile, had resumed the duties of the sen- 
tinel, and was pacing the measured ground with the regularity 
of a veteran, and the firm step of one who is conscious of no 
failure of duty. The scout’s ej r es naturally turned upon him 
‘with an expression of greatly increased regard. • 

“Well,” said he, in a mental soliloquy, “I was half jub’ous 
I’d have to lick Muggs over agin, before he could be brought to 
a reasonable way of thinking. I was mightily afeard that he 
only had half an onderstanding of the truth when I gin him that 
hoist on the Wateree; but it’s a God’s providence that orders 
all things, in his blessed mercy, for the best, and lets one licking 
answer for a stout man’s convarsion. I’m jub’ous, if Muggs 
liad’nt ha’ lost one arm in the wars, if he would have onderstood 
the liberties we’re fighting for hal so easily. Liberty’s a diffi- 
cult thing to be onderstood at first. It takes mighty hard knocks 
and a heap of thinking, to make it stand out cl’ar in the day- 
light; and then it’s never half so cl’ar, or half so sweet, as when 
there’s some danger that we’re going to lose it for ever, for good 
and all. If ever I wanted to teach a friend of mine how to be- 
lieve in the reason of liberty, I’d jis lock him up in a good strong 
jail for three months, or mou’t be six, put on a hitch of plough- 
line on hands and legs, and then argy with him to show that 
God made a mighty great mistake when he gin a man a pair of 

feet and a pair of hands, when he might see for himself that he 

could sleep in the stumps at both ends and never feel the want 
of ’em. But there comes Ben Geiger, I suppose, and I must lie 
as if my legs were stumps only. Lord! I’ll show ’em another 
sort of argyment as soon as Isaac gives that old Congaree 
whistle. It’s only some twenty steps to the wood, and I reckon 
it can’t be much more to the bay, for the airth looks as if it 
wanted to sink mighty sudden. These chaps round me snort 
very loud — that’s a sign; I’ve always hearn, of sound sleep- 
ing. I don’t much mind the resk of getting off to the bay; but 
I’m getting too fat about the ribs to walk a long way in this hot 
weather. Noise or no noise, I must pick out one of them nags 
for the journey. Let ’em snort. I don’t much mind pistol-bul- 
lets when they fly by night at a running horseman. They’re 

like them that shoot ’em. They make a great bellowing, but 


NINETY-SIX — A FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


291 


they can’t see. Let ’em snort; but ef I work my own legs this night, 
it’ll be to pick out the best nag in tnat gang, and use him by way of 
preference.” 

Time moved very slowly, in the estimation of the anxious 
scout. Ben Geiger, the sentry, had resumed his watch and 
walk. Muggs had disappeared, and solemn was the silence that 
once more prevailed over the encampment. Two full hours had 
elapsed since the limbs of Bannister had been unloosed, and still 
he waited for the signal which was to apprize him that the mo- 
ment for their use was at hand. But it came out at last, the 
long wailing note, such as soothes the heart with sweet melan- 
choly, untwisted from the core of the long rude wooden bugle of 
the Congaree boatman, as he winds his way upon the waters of 
that rapid, rushing river. The drowsy relief -guard soon followed, 
and Ben Geiger disappeared to enjoy that luxury of sleep from 
which his successor was scarcely yet entirely free. He rubbed 
his eyes and yawned audibly while moving to and fro with un 
steady step along the l eaten limits of his round. His drowsy 
appearance gave increased encouragement to the woodsman 
But even this was not necessary to impart confidence to so cool 
a temper, so cheerful a spirit, and so adroit a scout. The sentry 
had looked upon the prisoner and the horses in the presence of the 
guard when Geiger was relieved. Satisfied that all was safe, lie had 
started upon his march; and giving sufficient time to the guard to 
resume their own slumbers, Jack Bannister now prepared himself 
for his movement. 

This event, which would have been of great importance, and 
perhaps of trying danger to most persons in his situation, was 
really of little consequence in his eyes. With the release of his 
hands and feet he regarded the great difficulty as fully at an 
end. The risk of pistol-shot, as we have seen from his solilo- 
quy, he considered a very small one. Besides, it was a risk of 
the war in which he was engaged, and one which he had in- 
curred a hundred times before. On foot, he well knew - that he 
could surpass the best runner of the Indian tribes, and once in 
the thick bay which was contiguous, lie could easily conceal 
himself beyond the apprehension of cavalry. If he had any 
anxiety at all, it was on the subject of choosing a horse from 


292 


THE SCOUT. 


the cluster that were attached to the swinging limbs of the adja- 
cent oaks. He felt that, with the opportunity before him, and with 
choice allowed, it was incumbent upon him to choose with reference 
to his reputation no less than to his escape. To choose an inferior 
brute, having the pick of the best, would have argued greatly 
against the understanding of the scout, and would have filled his 
soul with a bitter sense of mortification. But hear him, as he 
deliberates, and you will be satisfied that he is not the person to 
throw away a good chance, and disregard the value of a proper 
choice. 

“There’s a dark bay, I’m thinking, that, as well as I can 
make out in the moonlight, is about the best. The black is a 
monstrous stout animal, but too high and heavy for the sand 
roads. The gray is a little too showy for a scout that ought to 
love the shade better than the sunshine. I reckon I’ll resk the 
bay. He ain’t too heavy, and he ain’t too low. He has legs 
enough for his body, and his body looks well on his legs. He’ll 
do, and if I could only take the saddle from the black and clap it on 
the bay, I’d be a made horseman. It’s a prime English saddl-, and 
I reckon the holsters don’t want for filling. It’s mighty tempting, 
but' ” 

A favorable opportunity for making a movement now suggest- 
ing itself, his soliloquy was cut short. The scout had his eyes 
all around him. The sentinel’s back was toward him, and he 
commenced his progress. To the citizen, uninformed in the ar- 
tifices of Indian warfare, the mode of operations adopted and 
pursued by our scout, would have been one of curious contem- 
plation and study. It is probable that such a person, though 
looking directly at the object, would have been slow to discern 
its movements, so sly, so unimposing, so shadowy as they were. 
With the flexibility of a snake the body of our scout seemed to 
slide away almost without the assistance of hands and feet. No 
obvious motion betrayed his progress, not the slightest rustling 
in the grass, nor the faintest crumpling of the withered leaf of 
the previous autumn. His escape was favored by the gray gar- 
ments which he wore, which mixed readily with the misty 
shadows of the night and forest. Amid their curtaining um- 
brage it ivas now impossible for the sentinel to perceive him 


NINETY-SIX — A FLIGHT BY NIGHT. 


293 


while pursuing his rounds ; and, aware of this, he paused behind 
one of the trees on the edge of the encampment, and gently ele- 
vating his head, surveyed the path which he had traversed. lie 
could still distinguish the sounds of sleep from several groups of 
his enemies. The moonlight was glinted back from moie than 
one steel cap and morion, which betrayed the proximity of the 
Black Riders. There lay Stockton, and Darcy, and the rest of that 
fearful band whose pathway had been traced in blood along the 
Congaree and Saluda. More than one of the associates of the 
scout had fallen by their felon hands. Well might Jack Bannister 
grind his teeth together as he surveyed them. Plow easy, with 
their own broadswords, to make his way, even at little hazard to 
himself, over severed necks and shoulders spouting with their 
gore. 

The feeling was natural to the man, but for an instant only. 
Bannister dismissed it with a shudder ; and turning warily in an- 
other direction, he proceeded to put in execution his design of choos- 
ing the best horse from among the group, for the purpose of making 
his flight as agreeable to himself, and as costly to his enemies, as was 
possible. Circumstances seemed to favor him, but he never fore- 
went his usual caution. He proceeded with sufficient gentleness, and 
produced no more disturbance among the animals than they habitually 
occasioned among themselves. His closer examination into their 
respective qualities confirmed the judgment which he had pre- 
viously formed while watching them from a distance. The dark bay 
was the steed that promised best service, and he succeeded with 
little difficulty in detaching him from the bough to which he was 
fastened. 

To bring him forth from the group, so as to throw the rest 
between himself and the sentinel's line of sight, w'as a task not 
much more difficult ; and but little more was necessary to ena- 
ble our adventurous scout to lead him down the hillside into the 
recesses of the bay, in the shade of which he could mount him 
without exposure, and dart off with every probability of easy 
escape. 

But courage and confidence are very apt to produce audacity 
in the conduct of a man of much experience ; and our scout 
yearned for the fine English saddle and holsters which were 


294 


THE SCOUT. 


carried by tlie black. Dropping the bridle of his bay, therefore 
over a slender hickory shoot, he stole back to the group, and pro- 
ceeded to strip the black of his appendages. But, whether the 
animal had some suspicions that all was not right in this nocturnal 
proceeding, or was indignant at the preference which the scout had 
gi^en in favor of his companion over himself, it is certain that he 
resented the liberties taken by the intruder in a manner that threat • 
ened to be more fatal to the fugitive than all the pistols of the en- 
campment. He proceeded by kicking and biting to prove his jeal- 
ousy and dislike, and this so effectually, as to make it a somewhat 
difficult matter for the scout to effect his extrication from the group, 
all of whom were more or less restiff, and prepared to retort upon 
the black the sundry assaults which, in his random fury, he had in- 
flicted upon them . 

This led to a commotion which attracted the attention of the senti- 
nel ; and his challenge, and evident approach, compelled Bannister 
to discard his caution and betake himself with all expedition to the 
steed which he had captured. He darted forward accordingly, and 
the sharp bang of the pistol followed his appearance on the back of 
the steed. This, though it awakened only the merriment of the fugi- 
tive, aroused the whole encampment. There was no time for con- 
templation— none for the expected conference with the landlord. 
Bannister knew this. He cast an instinctive glance to the northern 
heavens, as if seeking for their guiding star, then pricking his steed 
with the point of his knife, dashed away with a hurry-scurry 
through the woods that defied their intricacies, and seemed to laugh 
at the vain shouts and clamor of the Black Riders, who were seeking 
to subdue to order, with the view to pursuit, their now unmanage- 
able horses. 

The circumstance that had led to the discovery of Bannister’s 
flight, availed somewhat to diminish the dangers of the chase. 
Before the refractory steeds could be quieted, and the dragoons 
on the track of his flight, the tread of his horse’s heels was lost 
entirely to their hearing. They scattered themselves, neverthe- 
less, among the woods, but were soon recalled from a pursuit 
which promised to be fruitless ; while Bannister, drawing up his 
steed when he no longer heard the clamors of his pursuers 


SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE. 295 


coolly paused for a while to deliberate upon the circumstances of his 
situation. But a few moments seemed necessary to arrive at a reso- 
lution, and, once more tickling his horse’s flanks with the point of 
his knife, he buried himself from sight in the deepest recesses of the 
forest. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE. 

The excitement at the Middleton barony was succeeded by some- 
thing of a calm ; but not its usual calm. It had now other tenants 
than those whose quality and sex had maintained its peace 
along with its purity. The chief of the outlaws, attended closely 
by his faithful adherent, Watson Gray, was still its inmate ; and 
there was yet another stranger, in the person of a nice, dapper 
surgeon’s assistant, to whom Rawdon had given the wounded 
man in charge. This young gentleman was named Hillhouse. He 
was clever enough in his profession. He could take off a leg 
in the twinkling of an eye ; but he was one of that unfortunate 
class of smart young persons who aim at universal cleverness. 
There was no object too high for his ambition, and, unhappily, 
none too low. He philosophized when philosophy was on the tapis, 
and 

“ Hear him but reason in divinity,” 

you would have fancied the British camp was the very house of 
God, and the assistant surgeon the very happiest exponent of the 
designs of Providence. He talked poetry by the canto, and 
felicitated himself on the equal taste with which he enjoyed 
Butler and Cowley — the antipodes of English poets. But, per- 
haps, his happiest achievement was in the threading of a needle; 
and to see him in this performance was productive of a degree 
of amusement, if not real pleasure, which could neither be de- 
scribed easily nor well estimated. His adroitness was truly 
wonderful. Armed with the sharpened thread in one hand, and 


296 


THE SCOUT. 


the needle in the other — his lips working the while with singular 
indefatigableness — his left foot firmly planted in the foreground, 
his right thown back, and poised upon the toe ; — and he laughed 
to scorn the difficulty which the doubtful eye of the needle 
seemed to offer to his own. Ilis genius, though universal, 
lay eminently this way. He had the most marvellous nicety 
of finger in threading needles that ever was possessed by mortal. 
Unhappily, he was not satisfied with a distinction so notable. 
He w T as a universal genius, and aimed at all sorts of distinction. 
He would discourse of war, and manoeuvre armies, so as to 
confound Hannibal and circumvent Scipio ; and, while insisting 
upon his paramount excellence as a surgeon, was yet perpetually 
deploring that sacrifice of his better uses and endowments, 
which the profession required him to make. Convention 
had done something toward other developments and desires of 
our subject. He wag a gallant, no less than a genius — was 
ambitious of the reputation of a roue, and, according to his own 
account, had achieved some of the most wonderful conquests 
among the sex, in spite of the most eminent rivals. His complais- 
ance was prodigious, in reepect to the tender gender ; and when he 
considered how hopeless it was, in one man, to attempt to render 
all happy, he deplored the fate which had made him irresistible, and 
regretted that but a single life was allowed to execute all the 
desires even of universal genius. How he pitied the fair, frail 
creatures who were compelled to hunger hopelessly. He would 
willingly have had himself cut up in little for their sakes, could the 
ubiquitous attributes of his mind have availed for the several sub- 
divisions of his body ; but, as this could not well be done, he could 
only sigh for their privations. 

Fancy, with such complaisance, the person of the ugliest 
“ Greathead” in existence — a man, with a short neck, head 
round as a bullet, eyes like goggles, and a nose as sharp as a 
penknife ; a mouth which could hold a pippin, and was constantly 
on the stretch as if desiring one. Fancy, yet farther, such a 
person in the house with a woman like Flora Middleton, smirk- 
ing indulgently upon that damsel, and readily mistaking the 
cool contempt with which she regarded him, as only a natural 
impression of that wonder which his presence must naturally 


SHADOWS A^ T D STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE. 


297 


inspire in a country-girl — and it will not be difficult to anticipate 
some of the scenes which took place between them whenever it was 
the fortune of the gallant to be thrown into company with the 
maiden. 

Mr. Hillliouse was too provident of time in all matters, to 
suffer any of his talents to remain unemployed, when he could 
arrange it otherwise. Love-making was regarded as one of 
these. It was not with him a matter of passion or of sentiment. 
He had not a single sensibility at work. It was simply as an 
accomplishment, and as an exercise for his accomplishments, 
that he condescended to smile upon the fair, and to confer those 
affections which he otherwise affected to solicit. He himself had 
no affections — perhaps such a creature never has. He was deficient 
in that earnestness of character without which the sensibilities 
are forms rather than substances — the shows of things which 
only delude, and never satisfy the desires of the mind. lib had 
scarcely seen Flora Middleton before he had planned her con- 
quest. While examining the wounds of Morton, in connection 
with the head surgeon, he was turning over in his mind, and 
framing tiie words of that salutation which he was to address, 
on the first occasion, to the young lady. It was not many hours 
after Bawdon’s departure, before he commenced his operations. 
The breakfast-table was the scene. Mrs. Middleton, whom the 
fatigues and alarms of the night had overcome, was not present ; 
and, looking sad and unhappy, Flora took her seat at the coffee- 
board. 

Mr. Watson Gray and Mr. Hillliouse appeared at the first 
summons, though the latter did not seem conscious that the 
room was blessed with any other presence than his own, and 
that other with whom he condescended to converse. Watson 
Gray, with sufficient good sense, smiled, took his seat, and said 
nothing beyond what was required of good breeding. But the 
surgeon had reached a period in life, when it seemed to him a 
duty to display himself, and satisfy his companions of his ability 
to bring out others. Itawdon had said to him, when designating 
him for the duty of taking care of Morton — “Now, don’t make 
a fool of yourself, Ilillhouse and Majorbanks, in his hearing, 
had commented on the c unsel, by the remark — “It is almost the 


298 


THE SCOUT. 


only thing that he can not help doing.” But neither speech 
served to restrain a vanity whose ebullitions were habitual ; and 
the young surgeon began to prattle, as soon as the heiress made 
her appearance. The events of the night, the military movements 
of the dawn, and the beauty of the morn which succeeded, fur- 
nished him with ample topics. He was in hope that the “spirit- 
stirring drum and ear-piercing fife,” and so forth, had not vexed too 
greatly the slumbers of Miss Middleton ; — a wish that the young 
lady answered with a grave nod, and an assurance which her 
countenance belied, that she never felt better in all her life. The 
weather, the never-failing topic, enabled him to dilate copiously 
from the poets — Milton being the first at hand — with an almost 
literal description. 

“ A most lovely morning, Miss Middleton ! In this beautiful 
country, you may be said to realize the truth of Milton’s description 
of another region.” Hemming thrice, to relieve himself from an 
obstruction in the throat which he did not feel, he proceeded, 
in a sort of chant, to give the beautiful address of Eve to Adam — 
beginning : — 

“ Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet. 

With charm of earliest birds,” &c., &c. 

But nothing could exceed the unction of his look and gesture, when, 
approaching the conclusion of the passage, he betrayed by his look, 
tone, and action, the true reason why the selection had been 
made, and the application which he sought to give to its closing 
sentence.: — 

“ But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun, 

On this delightful land; nor herb, tree, flower. 

Glistening with dew ; nor fragrance after showers ; 

Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night 
With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon 
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet." 

Women very soon discern when they have to deal with a 
fool. At another time, and under other circumstances, Flora 
might have amused herself with the harmless monster ; but she 
forebore, and quietly replied : — 


SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE. 299 


“In truth, sir, your selection is very appropriate. The de- 
scription at this season of the day and year, is very correct, 
when applied to our Congaree country-. One would almost fancy 
that Milton had been thinking of us. At least, our self-com- 
plaisance may well take the liberty of applying his verses as 
we please. But, sir, do tell me how your patient is.” 

This was all said with the most indifferent, matter-of-fact 
manner in the world. The answer to the inquiry was lost in 
the professional knowledge which enveloped it. A long scien- 
tific jargon ensued, on the subjects of wounds in general; then 
followed an analysis of the several kinds of wounds — gun-shot, 
rifle, sabre, pike, bayonet, bill, bludgeon — wounds in the head and 
the hip, the shoulder and the leg, the neck and the abdomen. 

“But of all wounds, Miss Middleton, I feel at this moment 
more than ever convinced that the most fatal are those which 
are inflicted upon the human heart.” 

This was followed by a glance of the most inimitable tender- 
ness, while the hand of the speaker rested upon the region, the 
susceptibilities of which were alleged to be so paramount. 

“Your opinion, sir,” said the young lady, with becoming 
gravity, “is confirmed by all that I ever heard on the subject. 
Indeed, sir, our overseer, who is an excellent judge in such mat- 
ters, and who was at one time the only butcher in Charleston — 
prefers shooting a steer through the heart always, in preference 
to the head. He asserts that while death is certain to follow T 
the hurt in the one region, it is a very frequent circumstance 
that the hardness of the other renders it impenetrable to the 
bullet, unless the aim be very good and the distance be very 
small. But you, sir, ought to be the best judge of the correct- 
ness of this opinion . ” 

Watson Gray made considerable effort to suppress the grin 
which rose in spite of himself to his visage. The scout per- 
ceived, in an instant, the latent sarcasm in the reply of the 
damsel; hut the young surgeon was innocent of any unnecessary 
understanding, and as she kept her countenance with praise- 
worthy gravity, he was rather led to conclude that her sim- 
plicity was of a kind somewhat bordering on fatuity . 

“Verily,” he thought to himself, “this is a mere rustic; she 


THE SCOUT. 


300 

lias seen nothing of the world; lived always in a state of pure 
simplicity; totally unsophisticated. I shall have but little trouble 
with her.” 

With this reflection he proceeded with great dignity to offer some 
objections to the opinion of the overseer, to all of which Flora Mid- 
dleton assented with the air of one who is anxious to get rid of a 
wearisome person or subject . 

But the surgeon was not to be shaken off so easily; and every 
question which she found it necessary to propose, however sim- 
ple or little calculated to provoke dilation, only had the effect 
of bringing about the same results. The same jargon filled her 
ears — the same inflated style of compliment offended her taste 
and, in answer to the third or fourth inquiry as to the condition 
of his patient, he assured her that “ Wounds w r ere either fatal 
or they were not. Death might follow the prick of a needle 
while a man has been known to survive even a puncture of the 
heart itself;” — here followed another significant glance at the 
lady; — “but, he continued, with the air of a man who declares 
the law, “while there is life there is hope. Hope, as we are 
told by our little poet of Twickenham, ‘ hope springs eternal in 
the human breast;’ and the last person, Miss Middleton, whom 
hope should ever desert, should be the surgeon. So many have 
been the marvellous cures which the art of man has effected 
that he should despair of nothing. Nothing, you know, is im- 
possible with Providence — perhaps I should say with art; for 
many have been its successes, which ignorance lias falsely and 
foolishly attributed to miraculous interposition. Miracles, Miss 
Middleton, are not common things. I am of opinion, though I 
would not have you suppose me skeptical or irreligious, that a 
great many events are represented as miraculous which owe 
their occurrence to natural and ordinary laws. There was an 
instance — it came under my own observation in the island of 
Jamaica ” 

“Pardon me, sir, if you please, but if your patient can longer 
spare your presence, mine can not. I am to understand you, then, as 
of opinion that Mr. Conway can only survive by what is ordinarily 
considered a miracle; but which, I am to believe, will be then wholly 
ascribable to your professional skill? ” 


SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPOH THE SURFACE. 301 


I reckon, Miss Middleton, said WAtson Gray, rising from 
the table as he spoke, “ that Mr. Conway stands a good chance 
of getting over it. He’s got some ugly cuts, but he hasn’t much 
fever, and I don’t think any of the wounds touch the vital parts. 
I’ve seen a good many worse hurts in my time, and though I’m 
no doctor, yet I think he’ll get over it by good nursing and 
watching.” 

Mr. Hillhouse was greatly confounded by this interposition. His 
eyebrows were elevated as Watson Gray went on, and he permit- 
ted himself to exhibit just sufficient interest in the interruption 
as to wheel his chair half round, and take a cool contemptuous 
look at the speaker. The latter did not wait for reply or refutation; 
and the simple directness of what he said was sufficiently conclu- 
sive to Flora, who rose also, and — the gentlemen having finished 
breakfast — prepared to leave the room. But Mr. Hillhouse was not 
willing to suffer this movement. He had still more knowledge 
to display. 

“Do not be deceived by this person, Miss Middleton — a very 
cool person, certainly, not wanting in presumption — a strange per- 
son; I should judge him to be the overseer of whom you have 
spoken.” 

“ No, sir; I only know him as one of the friends of Mr. Conway.” 

“ Ah! a friend of Mr. Conway — a very strange selection. There 
is nothing about which gentlemen should be so careful as the 
choice of friends. A friend is a man ” 

“Excuse me, sir, — but may I beg your attention, at your earliest 
leisure, in the chamber of the young woman? Her delirium seems 
to be increasing.” 

It will give me pleasure to obey your requisitions, Miss Mid- 
dleton; but let me warn you against forming your judgment, upon 
the subject of Mr. Conway’s condition, from the report of this 
person — this overseer of yours. I doubt not that he is an excel- 
lent butcher, Miss Middleton; but, surely it is obvious to you that 
the art of taking life, and that of saving it, are very different 
arts. Now, I' suspect that he could tell very nearly, as well as 
myself, what degree of force it would be necessary to use in 
felling a bullock, but the question how to bring the same bullock to 
life again ” 


302 


THE SCOUT. 


“ Is surely one that is better answered by yourself, and I should 
consult you, sir, were it ever necessary, in preference to everybody 
else.” 

The surgeon bowed at the compliment, and with undiminished 
earnestness, and more directness than usual, returned to his subject, if 
subject he may have said to have who amalgamated all subjects so 
happily together. 

“ Mr. Conway, Miss Middleton, is not so bad as he might be, 
and is a great deal worse, I am disposed to think, than he wishes him- 
self to be. His wounds are not deadly, though he may die of them; 
yet, though life itself be but a jest, I must consider them serious. 
This overseer of yours is right in some things; though, I suspect, 
he only reports my own remarks to Lord Rawdon, made this morn- 
ing, ere his lordship took his departure. I told his lordship that I 
considered the case doubtful, as all maladies must - be considered; 
for you know that there is no certainty in life, but death. He has 
fever, and that is unfavorable; but as he has little fever, that is 
favorable. In short, if he does not suffer a great change for the 
worse, I trust that he will get better. Nay, I may admit that I 
have hopes of it, though no certainties. The surgeon who speaks 
of certainties, in such matters is — pardon me, Miss Middleton — 
little better than a fool.” 

“ I thank you, sir; you have really enlightened me on many sub- 
jects. I am very much obliged to you. You must have seen a great 
deal of the world, sir.” 

This was said with an air of very great simplicity. It completely 
deceived the complacent surgeon. 

“ The world! Miss Middleton, I have sounded it everywhere. I 
have basked on the banks of the Niger; I have meditated at the foot 
of the pyramids; have taken my chibouque with a pacha, and eaten 
sandwiches with the queen of Hungary. I have travelled far, 
toiled much; spent five years in India, as many in the West Indies, 
two in South America; and yet, you see me here in South Caro- 
lina, still nothing more than second-surgeon to a little army of 
less than five thousand men, commanded by a general who — 
but no matter! Lord Rawdon is a good soldier, Miss Middleton — 
as the world goes — but, burn me! a very poor judge of good 
associates.” 


SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE. 303 


“ You must have left your maternal ties at a very early 
period, to have travelled so far, and seen so much.” 

“ Apron strings” softened into “ maternal ties,” did not offend 
the surgeon’s sensibilities. 

“ A mere boy, Miss Middleton ; but it is surprising how rap- 
idly a person acquires knowledge, who starts early in pursuit 
of it. Besides, travelling itself is a delight — a great delight — 
it would do you good to travel. Perhaps, were you to go 
abroad for a single year, you would feel less surprised at the 
extent of my acquisitions.” 

“ Indeed, sir, do you really think so V ' 

“ I do — ’pon my honor I do. Your place here is a very fine 
one. You have, I understand, some ten thousand acres in this 
estate — ‘the Old Barony’ it’s called — slaves in sufficient num- 
ber to cultivate it, and really everything remarkably attractive 
and pleasant. I can very well understand how it is that you 
should not care to leave it even for a season : but if you only 
knew what a joy travelling is — to go here and go there — see 
this thing and that — be asked to this fete and that palace — 
and know that the whole gay world is looking for your presence 
and depending on your smile ; if you only knew this, Miss Mid- 
dleton, you’d give up your acres and your slaves, your barony 
and all its oaks ; think them all flat, stale, and unprofitable — 
you’d ” 

“ Oh, sir, excuse me. You are too eloquent. If I remain 
longer, I shall be persuaded to go ; and I must go in order to 
remain. Good morning, sir. I trust that you will devote your 
earliest leisure to the poor young woman.” 

The surgeon bent and bowed almost to the ground, while his 
band was pressed to his lips with the air of exquisite refinement 
which distinguished that period. The dandy is clearly human. 
All ages have possessed the creature under one guise or another. 
The Roman, the Greek, the Egyptian, the Hebrew, all the 
Asiatics, the English, and the French, have all borne testimony 
to their existence ; and, perhaps, there is no dandy half so ultra 
in his styles as the Cherokee or the Chickasaw. Nature and art 
both declare his existence and recognise his pretensions. In this 
point of view common sense can urge no objections to him. 


THE SCOUT. 


B04 

He clearly lias an allotted place in life ; and like the wriggling 
worm that puts on a purple jacket and golden wings, though 
we may wonder at the seeming waste of so much wealth, we 
can not deny its distribution, and must, suppose that the insect , 
has its uses, however unapparent. The exquisite may stand in 
the same relation to the human species as the jay or the peacock . 
among the birds. These teach the vanity of their costume while 
displaying it : as the man of sense learns to avoid the folly, / 
even in degree, which is yet the glory of the fool. 

“Charming creature!” exclaimed the dandy, yawning, and 
throwing himself backward on the cushions of the huge sofa, 
which stood temptingly contiguous — “Charming creature ! She 
deserves some painstaking. Her person is not fine, but her 
lands are ; her beauties are few, but her slaves are many. She 
is rather simple, perhaps ; but, gad, my soul ! ne is hard indeed / 
to satisfy whom these fine grounds, excellent mansion, good 
lands, charming groves, and balmy atmosphere would not recon- 
cile to any sacrifices. We must make it, some day or other, all 
of us ; and though, Augustus Hillhouse, be thou not too nice ! 
Already hast thou suffered many a choice fleshly dainty to slip 
through thy fingers because of thy fastidious stomach. Beware 1 
Thou art wasting time which is precious. Age will come upon 
thee ! Age ! ah !” — with a shiver — “ it will need fine mansion, 
and noble park, and goodly income, to reconcile that to thy phi- 
losophy. ‘ In the days of thy youth,’ saitli the proverb. I will 
take counsel of it in season. The damsel’s worth some pains- 
taking, and the sacrifice is not without its reward. But such a 
gown and stomacher as she wears ! I must amend all that. 
There is also an absence of finish in the manner, winch too de- 
cidedly betrays the rustic. Her voice, too, has a twang — a 
certain peasant-like sharpness, which grates harshly upon the 
ear. But these things may be amended! — yes, they may be 
amended. I must amend them, certainly, before I can commit 
myself among my friends ; for what would Lady Bell, who is a 
belle no longer, say to such a bodice, such a stomacher, and, 
above all, to a carriage which shows a degree of vigor so utterly 
foreign to good breeding. I must teach her languor, and that 
w*ll be the worst task of all, for it will require exertion, She 


SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE. 305 


must learn to lounge with grace, to sigh with a faint-like soft- 
ness, to open her eyes as if she were about to shut them, and, 
when she speaks, to let her words slide out through the tips of 
hor lips as if she were striving all she could, short of positive 
effort, to keep them in. Ah, charming Bell ! sweet Lady Char- 
lotte ! and thou, dearest of all the dears, fair Moncrieff ! — could 
this barony-girl grow wise in those things in which ye are so 
excellent, how much lovelier were she than all of ye ! Ye are 
landless, sweet ladies — and therefore ye are loveless. These 
acres weigh heavily against your charms. Augustus Hillliouse, 
be not foolish in thy fastidiousness. Take the fruits which the 
gods bestow upon thee, and quarrel not with the bounty because 
of the too much red upon the apple. It is a good fruit, and the 
red may be reconciled, in due season, to a becoming delicacy.” 

The»dandy soliloquized at greater length, but neither his eu- 
phuism nor his philosophy finds much favor in our sight. We 
are not" of that class of writers who delight in such detail, and 
we shall not, accordingly — and this omission may surprise the 
fashionable reader — furnish the usual inventory of Mr. Hill- 
house’s dress and wardrobe. Enough that it was ample even 
for his purposes, and enabled him to provide a change, and a 
different color, for every day in the month. He had his purple 
and his violet, his green and his ombre, the one was for the day 
of his valor, the other for his sentiment, the third for his love- 
sadness, and the fourth for his feeling of universal melancholy. 
We shall only say, that his violet was worn at his first interview 
with Flora Middleton. 

While his head ran upon his marriage, a measure which he 
had now certainly resolved upon, it was also occupied with cer- 
tain incidental and equally important topics, such as the dress 
which should be worn on such occasion — for the day of his 
marriage was the only day he had never before provided for — 
and the subsequent disposition of the goods and chattels which 
lie was to take possession of with his wife. Stretched at length 
upon the cushions, with one leg thrown over an arm of the sofa, 
and the other resting upon the floor, his head raised upon the 
pillows, which had been drawn from both extremities for this 
purpose — his eyes half shut in dreamy languor, and his lipr 


306 


THE SCOUT. 


gently moving as lie whispered over the several heads of topics 
which engaged his reflection ; lm was suddenly aroused by hear- 
ing the fall of a light footstep behind him. At first he fancied 
that it might be one of the servants, but a negro is usually a 
heavy-heeled personage, who makes liis importance felt upon 
the. floor, if nowhere else ; and when, in the next moment, Mr 
Augustus Hillhouse remembered this peculiarity in his nature, 
lie fancied that the intruder could be no other than the fair rus- 
tic whose acres he was then disposing of with the most mercan- 
tile facility. Nothing could be more natural than that she should 
very soon find her way back to the spot where it was possible 
to find him. 

Under this impression, he started to his feet with an air of 
well -practised confusion ; and having been at some pains to 
throw into his countenance an excess of sweetness and sensibil- 
ity, he turned his eyes, as lie fancied, upon the fair intruder, to 
meet — not the lady of his love, nor one of the gentler sex at 
all — but a man, and such a man ! 

Never was creature so wofully confounded as our young gal- 
lant. The person who encountered his glance, though but foi 
an instant only, was the very picture of terror — gaunt terror — 
lean misery, dark and cold ferocity. Clothed in the meanest 
homespun of the country, and that in tatters, the tall, skeleton 
form of a man, stood in the doorway, evidently receding from 
the apartment. In his eyes there was the expression of a 
vacant anger — something of disappointment and dislike — a look 
of surprise and dissatisfaction. In his hand, at the moment of 
his disappearance, Mr. Hillhouse fancied that he saw the sudden 
shine of steel. But he was so completely confounded by the 
apparition that he was for a few moments utterly incapable of 
speech ; and when he did speak, the spectre disappeared. 

“ Who are you, and what do you want ?” was the shivering 
inquiry which he made. A savage grin was the only answer of 
the stranger, and the next instant the surgeon stood alone 

“ The devil, to be sure 1” he exclaimed ; but, recovering his 
corn age, he darted after his strange visiter. He rushed into the 
passage-way — out into the porch — ran down the steps, looked 
vi into the court — but in vain. He could see nobody. Even 


SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE. 


307 


the sentinels, whom he knew to have been placed at tlie portals, 
front and rear, were withdrawn ; and no object more suspicious 
than a lame negro met his eye in the whole range of vision that 
lay within it. He re-entered the house, more than ever satisfied 
that he had been favored with a visit from a personage whose 
intimacy implies brimstone and other combustibles ; and a sud- 
h'ii resolution to resume his duties, and see at once into the 
condition of his patients, whom he began to think he had too 
lor.g neglected, was the result of his supernatural visitation. 

The first object of his care was the person of the outlaw — 
not because of his superior claims, or worse condition, but simply 
because he felt his nerves too much agitated to encounter the 
young lady in whose presence it was necessary to practise that 
nice and deliberate precision of tone and manner, language and 
address, which form the first great essentials of successful senti- 
ment, in all ages, when dealing with the sex. Regarding Wat- 
son Gray as a mere circumstance in a large collection of depen- 
dencies — a sort of hanging-peg, ' or resting-point, a mounting- 
block, or a shoe-tie in the grand relationships of society — he had 
no scruple at exhibiting his real emotions in his presence ; and 
lie poured forth to the cooler and more rational scout the intelli- 
gence of which he was possessed. 

Gray regarded the surgeon as a fool, but had no reason to 
suppose that he was a liar. He saw no reason to doubt that he 
had seen somebody, and concluded that his alarm had somewhat 
magnified the terrors of what he saw. But his description of 
f lic costume worn by the visiter was so precise and particular, 
that he well knew that neither the fears nor the follies of the 
other could have caused his invention of it ; and, with graver 
looks than he himself was aware of, he descended instantly to 
the lower story. 

There he found the sentinels, each at his post, and they swore 
they had been so from the beginning. This one circumstance 
led the scout to think more lightly of the surgeon’s story ; but 
there was still something in the description which had been 
given him that he could not dismiss from his consideration. He 
searched the immediate neighborhood of the premises, but with- 
out discovering anything to awaken his suspicions. He saw 


308 


THE SCOUT. 


nothing ; but a keen watchful eye followed his progress, ever) 
step which he made, along the avenue. 

The father of Mary Clarkson had survived the conflict of the 
preceding night. It was his spectre which had so fearfully 
alarmed the contemplative surgeon. He had good reason for 
his alarm. His sudden movement alone, which enabled the vin- 
dictive old man to discern the slight popinjay person of the sur- 
geon. saved him from the sharp edge of the uplifted knife. The 
couteau dc chasse of the woodman — an instrument not unlike 
the modern bowie-knife — had, at one moment, nearly finished 
the daydreams of Mr. Hillhouse and his life together. 

Finding nothing in his search like the object described, Wat- 
son Gray was disposed to think that the surgeon had seen one 
of the soldiers on duty, who had probably found his way into 
the mansion with the view of employing his eyes or his Angers 
— for the moral sense of the invading army, officers and soldiers, 
does not seem to have been very high ; but this idea was com- 
bated by the fact that Hillhouse had been for many years, 
himself, a member of the British army, and knew, as well as 
anybody, the costume of its several commands. The nervous 
excitement of the surgeon, which was not overcome when Gray 
returned to the chamber, was another argument against this no- 
tion. But a new light broke in upon Watson Gray when he 
remembered the ancient superstition along the Oongaree. 

“You’ve seen the ghost of the cassique,” he said, with a con- 
clusive shake of the head ; “ old Middleton walks, they say 
I’ve heard it a hundred times. He used to wear homespun and 
a hunting-shirt — though I never heard it was ragged — and the 
big knife and rifle were never out of his hands. The Oongaree 
Indians used to call him King Big Knife, and, sure enough, he 
made it work among the red skins whenever they came about 
his quarters and didn’t carry themselves rightly. He was a 
most famous hunter ; and, between the bears and the savages, 
the knife and rifle had very little rest with him. I reckon it’s 
him you’ve seen, though it’s something strange for a ghost to 

alk in broad daytime.” 

The surgeon was not entirely satisfled with this explanation ; 


SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE. 


309 


not because it seemed very unreasonable, but simply because it 
clashed with his habitual philosophy. 

“Ah, my good friend,” he exclaimed patronizingly, “I sec 
you labor under some very vulgar errors. The belief in ghosts 
is entirely done away with. Ghosts, like continental money, 
had their value only so long as the people had their credulity. 
The moment you doubt, the ghosts disappear, and the money is 
rejected. They found credit only among a simple people and 
in the early stages of society. As philosophy — divine not 
crabbed, as dull fools suppose — as philosophy began to shed 
her beams upon the world” &c. 

Watson Gray had already ceased to listen, and we may as 
well follow his example. Talking still, however, while working 
about the wounds of his patient, the surgeon at length awakened 
another voice ; and the faint, but coherent words of the outlaw, 
summoned the scout to his bedside. 

“Where am I ? — what ctoes all this mean, Gray'?” 

But the surgeon interfered, and for five minutes expatiated 
on the great danger to a patient situated as he was, in using his 
own, or hearing the voice of any but his professional attendant. 

“ Nothing, my good sir, can be more injurious to the nervous 
system, particularly where there is any tendency upward — any 
mounting of the blood to the brain ! I have known numberless 
instances where the results have been fatal, even of the most 
trifling conversation. Once in India, a colonel of cavalry, as 
brave a fellow as ever lived — Monckton — a noble fellow — 
dressed like a prince — won every woman he looked at, and 
was happy in never being made to marry any — he suffered from 
a gunshot wound, got in a desperate charge which he made at 
the head of his regiment, upon the native troops. The rajah 
himself fell — and my poor friend Monckton ” 

“Pshaw !” feebly exclaimed the outlaw, but with an emphasis 
and manner sufficiently marked to be offensive. 

“ Pshaw ! pshaw ! sir — do you mean ‘ pshaw !’ sir, an epithet 
of contempt or ” 

The wounded man interrupted him — 

“ Pray, my good sir, be silent for a moment, while I hear 
whai. my friend says. Come hither, Gray.” 


310 


THE SCOUT. 


“I warn you, sir — I wash my hands of the responsibility!” 
exclaimed the now indignant surgeon. “ Pshaw! pshaw! — and to 
me! ” 

“ Gray, can’t you turn that fool fellow from the room? ” said 
Morton, in a tone which was only inaudible to Hillhouse from the 
feebleness of the speaker. But no such steps were necessary. The 
indignant surgeon availed himself of the moment to obey the requisi- 
tion of Miss Middleton, and visit his. other patient: and the outlaw 
and his subordinate were left undisturbed to a long, and, to them, not 
an uninteresting conference. 

This conference had relation to many events and interests which 
do not affect the progress of this narrative, and do not accordingly 
demand our attention; but we may add, that no portion of the intelli- 
gence which Watson Gray brought his commander was of half the 
interest, in his mind, as those events which we have previously re- 
lated, in the occurrences of Brier Park, after the moment of Edward 
Morton’s insensibility. 

“That I live at all is almost miraculous,” was the remark of 
the outlaw; “for I had goaded him” — meaning his brother — 
“almost to desperation, and when my hand failed me I looked for 
death.” 

“But why do this? ” was the earnest inquiry of Gray; “why, 
when so much was at stake? I thought you had made it your chief 
care, and believed it your correct policy, particularly as concerns Miss 
Flora, to keep him in the dark. Why tell him all — why goad him 
with this knowledge? ” 

“ So it was my policy, and so I had resolved; but the devil and 
my own passions drove me to it; and some other feelings which I 
could not well account for. Hate, hate, hate! was at the bottom of 
all, and I suppose I needed blood-letting.” 

“You have had it — enough of it.” 

“ Ay, but I live in spite of it, Watson Gray, and I feel that I 
shall still live. I shall not die this bout — not while I am here 
— here in the same house with her , aud while all things below 
are, as you tell me, ripe and favorable. This alone is enough 
to cure wounds thrice as numerous and thrice as deep as mine. I 
am here with her, and let me but use these limbs once more, and 
the victory and the prize are mine. I will wear them, Watson 


SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE. 311 

Gray, with a savage joy which shall find triumph in a thousand 
feelings which confer anything hut joy. She shall know, and 
he shall know what it is to have felt with feelings such as 
mine.” 

The outlaw sank backward from exhaustion, and Watson 
Gray found it necessary to enforce the suggestions of,, the sur- 
geon, and to impose upon the speaker that restraint which his 
weakness showed to be more than ever necessary. This was a diffi- 
cult task , the outlaw being impatient to hear particulars, and 
dilate upon hopes and passions, which filled all the secret avenues of 
his soul with joy ! It was only by warning him of the danger of de- 
feating everything by tasking his powers prematurely, that he was 
subdued to silence ; but his lips still worked with his desire to speak, 
and while he lay with shut eyes upon his couch, almost 
fainting with exhaustion, his heart heaved with the exult- 
ing images which fancy had already arrayed before his 
mind, in preparing his contemplated triumph. That triumph in- 
cluded the possession of Flora Middleton, and his escape with her, 
and other treasures, only less valuables in his own estimation, and 
of far greater value in that of his confederate. Already he was 
dreaming of groves in the West Indian Islands ; of a safe retreat 
from the snares of enemies ; and of the possession of those charms 
which had equally warmed his mind and his passions. Dreaming, he 
slept; and Watson Gray availed himself of his repose to snatch a 
brief hour of oblivion from the same auspicious influence. 







THE SCOUT. 


Hi o 
*) JL /V 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

GUILT, AND ITS VICTIM. 

The course of the surgeon, when he left the chamber of the out 
law, was taken, as we have seen, to the apartment of his other 
patient. The indignation which he felt at the conduct of Mor- 
ton, in rejecting, in terms of such contempt, his counsel to silence ; 
expedited his movements, and, muttering while he went, the dis- 
comfiture which he felt, he found himself in the presence of 
Miss Middleton before he had entirely smoothed his ruffled front 
for such a meeting. But Mr. Hillhouse prided himself on his 
possession of all those nice requisites which constitute, par excel- 
lence, the essentials of ladies-men. Among these 'may be 
reckoned a countenance which no unruly passions could ever 
discompose. He started, with an air of studied, theatrical modesty, 
.when, at the entrance of the chamber, he saw the young 
lady ; — passed his kerchief once over his face, and the magic 
consequences of suejh a proceeding, were instantly apparent. 
The wrinkles and frowns had all disappeared, and sweet senti- 
ment and deliberate love alone appeared upon that territory 
which they had unbecomingly usurped. The surgeon approached 
trippingly, and in a half whisper to Flora, communicated his 
apologies. 

“ I still tremble, Miss Middleton, for I had almost ventured into 
your presence with an angry visage. The truth is, I am sometimes 
susceptible of anger. My patient in the opposite apartment proves to 
be unruly. He has annoyed me. He rejects good counsel, and lie 
who rejects counsel need not take physic. Counsel, Miss Middleton, 
has been happily designated the physic of the soul, and should never 
be rejected — ” 

“ Except, perhaps, when given as physic, sir ; — but will you look 
at this poor young woman. I am afraid you can do but little for her. 
She grows worse every moment.” 


guilt, aUd its victim. 


313 


“ A-hern! — The limit to human art has not yet been found, 
Miss Middleton. The patient has frequently been rescued from 
the very fingers of death. My own successes in this respect 
have been numerous and remarkable. I remember once in. 
Ceylon, .sometime in the autumn of 1772, I had a case of this 
very sort, and a young woman too. She fractured her skull by 
falling from a window, in an effort to reach her lover. The 
affair occasioned not a little sensation at the time. The parties 
were something more than respectable on all sides; but an un- 
conquerable aversion to her lover which her. father entertained 
threatened to defeat their desires. You need not be told, Miss 
Middleton, that where a young woman loves, she will, do any- 
thing to secure the object of her attachment. He was worthy 
of her. He was an Irishman, his name Macartney — and cer- 
tainly, for that day, had the most inimitable taste in the ar- 
rangement of his cravat, of any man I ever knew. He could 
make a pendant to it, a sort of nee ad Gorclienne, which I would 
defy the prettiest fingers in the world to unravel. The knot 
appeared like a ball, a single glofie, from which hung two lappets, 
being the open ends of the kerchief. Sometimes, with singular inge- 
nuity, he would alter the design so as to leave but one lappet, and 
then, it might be likened to a comet, with a tail — such a one as I 
saw at Paris, in 1769. I doubt if you were then quite old enough to 
have seen that comet, but you may have heard of it. It had a most 
prodigious tail — fully sixty degrees in length, as computed by the 
astronomers. ” | 

It was with a degree of disgust, almost amounting to loathing, 
that Flora Middleton listened to the stuff of the voluble exquisite, 
poured forth all the while that he pursued his examination into 
the hurts of his patient. It seemed shocking that one could 
speak at such a moment, on any subject but such as was essential 
to the successful performance of the task in hand; but that he 
should enlarge on such wretched follies, with so much suffering be- 
fore his eyes, seemed to her still more shocking, strange, and unnat- 
ural. 

It will be remembered that Flora Middleton was a country- 
girl, to whom the resources and employments of the conven- 
tional world of fashion, were almost entirely unknown, except 


THE SCGY1T 


814 

from books, and if she heard anything of such nxtravagaucie*. 
in them, they were very likely to be thrown by, as too silly foi 
perusal, and too idle for belief. The plaintive moans and oc 
casional ejaculations of the poor girl offered the only interrup- 
tion to the garrulity of the surgeon, but did not seem to awaken 
any feeling. He commented on this insensibility, by a quota- 
tion from Shakspeare, which served for the time to divert him 
entirely from the subject. 

“ ‘ How use doth breed a habit in a man !' 1 do believe, Mis^ 

Middleton, though I should think just as much of her as before 
and feel just as desirous of doing her a service, that I could 
take off the leg of my grandmother with as much composure and 
indifference, as perform on the most indifferent stranger. Did 
you ever have a tooth drawn, Miss Middleton V * 

He urged this question with great gravity, but did not wait 
c or the answer. 

“A painful operation to the patient, decidedly, and the only 
surgical operation which I have any reluctance to perform. My 
objection arose from a very rational circumstance. When in 
my teens, and a student — a time as you perceive not very 
remote, Miss Middleton, though my worldly experience has been 
so extensive and so rapid — I was called upon to extract a tooth 
from the mouth of a young lady, the daughter of a singing 
master in Bath. She was very nervous, and gave me a great 
deal of trouble to get her to submit. But I had scarcely got 
my finger i|to her mouth — .being about to use the lancet— 
when — look what a mark !” — showing his finger — *' it will last 
me to my grave, and, as you see, disfigures terribly the entire 
member! — She closed her jaw upon me, and — ah! I feel the 
thrill of horror even now, wlikk seemed to run through my 
whole system. Nay, by my faith, would you think it — not 
content with taking hold, she seemed no way disposed to let go 
again, and it was only by main force that she was persuaded to 
recollect that my finger had no real or natural connection with 
her incisors. Young ladies are said to keep possession of their 
favorites with a tenacity peculiar to themselves, but a inode like 
his, Miss Middleton, you will readily admit, was neither loving 
Mylike." 


GUILT, AND ITS VICTIM. 


315 


As she looked and listened, Flora could scarce forbear the 
exclamation of “ unfeeling fool while the reflection which has 
occurred to every mind which has ever observed and thought, 
suggested to hers the strong identity which exists between the 
extremely callous and cold nature, and that in which levity 
se ',ms a leading characteristic. The extremes inevitably meet 
The bear can dance, and the monkey, which is one of the most 
sportive, if not the most formidable, is one of the most malignant 
of the wild tribes of the forest. A frivolous people is apt to be 
a savage people, and the most desperate Indian warriors prefer 
the looking-glass worn about their necks to any other ornament 

While the surgeon was prating in this fashion, he was extort- 
ing groans from the poor girl whose hurts he examined without 
seeming to be conscious of the pain he gave ; and the finger 
which he presented for examination as that which had so much 
suffered from the jaws of the lady of Bath was stained with the 
crimson hues from the fractured skull which he had been feel- 
ing. Mr. Hillhouse was considered a good surgeon in the Brit 
ish army ; and, it may be, tl at the very callosity which shocked 
the sensibilities of Flora Middleton, would not only commend 
him to the rough soldier, who acquires from his daily practice a a 
habitual scorn of the more becoming humanities, but was, indeed, 
one cause of his being an excellent operator. His skill, how- 
ever, promised to avail nothing in behalf of his female patient ; 
and when, at length, after a thousand episodes, Flora obtained 
from him his final opinion, though it said nothing, it signified 
much. 

The mournful presentiments of the poor girl, expressed to her 
betrayer but a few days before, promised to be soon realized. 
Her wounds, mental and bodily, were mortal. Her mind was 
gone. Her body was sinking fast. The seat of reason was 
usurped by its worst foe ; and delirium raved with unabashed 
front and unabashed presence, over the abandoned empire of 
thought. Wild and wretched were the strange and incoherent 
expressions which fell from her lips. Now she spoke of her 
childhood, now of her father; and when she spoke of him, her 
eyes would unclose, and shudder! ugly steal a hasty glance for a 
few moments around the chamber — meeting the gaze of Flora 


316 


THE oCOUT. 


Middleton, they would suddenly turn aside, jr lold themselves 
up again, as if anxious to exclude a painfil object from their 
survey. 

But there was one name which, like the keynote in an elab- 
orate strain of artificial music, sounded ever preclusive to the 
vest ; and the keen ear of Flora heard with surprise the frequent 
iteration, in tones of the most touching tenderness and entreaty, 
of the name of Edward. Never once did the listener conjecture 
to whom this name applied. It was the name of the father, 
perhaps the brother, the dear friend ; but never once did she 
fancy the true relation which made it dear, and fatal as it was 
dear, to the unhappy victim. Could she have guessed the truth 
— could she have dreamed, or in any way been led to a presci- 
ence of the truth — how would that suffering, but proud heart, 
have melted at the stern cruelty which its injustice was mo- 
mently doing to the faithful but absent lover ! Her meditations 
were those of the unsophisticated and pure-souled woman. 

“ I will not let her suffer,” she murmured to herself, while she 
sat beside the dying creature. “ I will not let her suffer, though, 
poor victim, she little fancies how much suffering her presence 
brings to me. Her miserable fall, and wretched fortunes, shall 
not make her hateful in my sight. God keep me from such 
cruel feelings, and strengthen me against temptation. Let me 
treat her kindly, and not remember to her detriment that Clar- 
ence Conway has been her destroyer. 0, Clarence, Clarence ! 
You, of whom I thought such pure and noble thoughts — you, 
who seemed to me so like a man in excellence— as man was 
when he spoke unabashed in the presence of the angels — how 
could you stoop to this baseness, and riot on the poor victim, 
abusing the fond attachment which proved her only weakness, 
and which, in the eye of him she loved, should have been her 
chief security and gtrengtli.” 

Had Flora Middleton lived more in the world, and in the 
great cities thereof, she might have been less severe in examin- 
ing the supposed conduct of her lover. Her soliloquy might 
have been softened, as she reflected upon the numbers among 
her sex, vicious and artful, who save the betrayer some of his 
toils, snd are caught sometimes in their artifices; but of this 


GUILT, AND ITS VICTIM. 


317 


class ol persons she had no knowledge, and did not even con- 
jecture their existence. She took it for granted that Clarence 
Conway was the one who was wholly guilty — his victim was 
only weak through the strength of her attachment. The warmth 
of her own regards for her lover enabled her to form a correct 
idea of that overpowering measure which had been the poor 
girl’s destruction ; and thinking thus, she had no indulgence for 
him, whom she regarded as one recklessly, and without qualifi- 
cation, wicked. 

But the truth is, even Edward Morton, the real wrong-doer, 
bad not, in this case, deserved entirely this reproach. There 
was some truth in the sarcasm which he uttered to Mary Clark- 
son, when lie told her that her own vanity had had considerable 
part in her overthrow. She felt the partial truth of the accusa- 
tion, and her own reproaches followed on her lips. It would be 
doing injustice to the outlaw, were we to describe him as indif- 
ferent to her situation. There was still something human in his 
nature — some portion of his heart not utterly ossified by the 
selfishness which proved its chief characteristic. In the long 
and earnest conversation which followed, between him and his 
confidante in his chamber after the exclusion of the surgeon he 
had asked and received all the information which could be given 
on the subject of the events which had made Mary Clarkson a 
victim to a like misfortune, and in consequence of the same cir- 
cumstances, with himself. He did not know the fact, nor could 
Watson Gray inform him, that she received her hurts because 
of the feeble attempt which she made to como to his relief. But, 
all the circumstances led to this conviction, ana when the outlaw 
resurveyed the ground over which he had gene, and her unvary- 
ing devotedness through the long and perilous period of strife, 
toil, and danger, which had marked his footsteps; — when he 
remembered how many had been her sacrifices, how firm had 
been her faith — the only one true, amid the many false or 
doubtful, and only secured by purchase; — when the same train 
of thought reminded him that, for all this devotion, she had re- 
cei red few smiles, and no love, from the very person for whom 
alone she smiled, and who monopolized, without knowing hov 
to nine, all the love of which she was canable: — it was then 


318 


THE SCOUT. 


possibly for the first time in his life, that the cold and keen re- 
proaches of remorse touched his heart. 

‘ ‘ I have done the poor creature wrong — I have not valued her 
as she deserves. See to her, Gray, for God’s sake, and let not 
that fool of a surgeon, if he can do anything, spare his ef- 
forts. If she survives I will make amends to her. I will treat 
her more kindly; for never has poor creature been more faithful; 
and I’m inclined to think that she must have been hurt in some 
idle attempt to come to my succor. You say you found her on 
the same spot ? ” 

“Very nearly.” 

“Surely, Clarence Conway could not have drawn weapon 
upon her ! ” 

“You forget. She was dressed in men’s clothes, and in the dark- 
ness of the evening.” 

“Yes, yes — but still a mere boy in appearance, and there 
never was a brighter moonlight. Nobody would have used deadly 
weapon upon one whose form was so diminutive and evidently 
feeble. She was sick, too — she told me so; but I had heard her 
complain so often, that I gave her no credit for sincerity, and sent 
her back to watch those d — d plotting scoundrels in the swamp. 
"Would the fiends had them !” 

We need not pursue this dialogue farther. The exhaustion 
of the outlaw left him temporarily oblivious on the subject of 
the girl ; but, towards evening, starting up from a brief uneasy 
slumber, his first inquiry was into her condition. When told that 
her skull was fractured, that she was raging with fever and de- 
lirium, the outlaw sank back, shut his eyes, and, though awake, 
lay in a rigid silence, 'which showed the still active presence of 
those better feelings of which it was his misfortune to possess 
but few, and those too feeble for efficient and beneficial service. 
How small was their effect, may be judged from the success of 
the means employed by Watson Gray to divert his mind from 
the gloomy fit into which he seemed to have fallen. That 
vicious adherent seized the moment to inform him of the steps 
he had taken to lay the wrong done her innocence at the door 
of Clarence Conway, and to convey this impression to Flora 
Middleton. The exultation of a selfish hope came in to silence 


GUILT, AND ITS VICTIM. 


319 


remorse, and the outlaw opened liis eyes to eulogize the prompt 
villany of his confederate. 

“ A good idea that, and it can do poor Mary no harm now ; 
and how looks Flora since she heard it ? Have you seen her 
since ?” 

“Yes: she looks twice as tall, and ten times as haughty as 
before.” 

“ Flora Middleton to the life ! The Semiramis or Zenobia ot 
the Congaree. As proud as either of those dark, designing 
dames of antiquity. She fancied that you were pitying her 
whenever your eyes turned upon her face, and after that her 
only effort was to make herself seem as insensible and indiffer- 
ent as if she never had a heart. Ah ! Gray, my good fellow, 
only get me on my legs again before Rawdon is compelled to 
take to his, and if I do not cany the proud damsel off from all 
of them, I deserve to lose all future stakes as well as all the 
profits of the past. Keep that fool fellow of a surgeon from 
probing me, simply that he may use his instrument and fingers, 
and let him only do what you think necessary or useful. I 
can’t well believe that such a civet-scented thing as that can 
possibly be of any use, except to wind silk, or tend upon 
poodles ; and would sooner have your doctoring than that of 
the whole tribe. Get me my limbs again, and the rest is easy.” 

What was that rest ? What were those hopes which gave 
such a tone of exultation to the voice and language of the 
wounded man? We need not anticipate. The conjecture is 
only too easy. What should they be, springing in such a rank 
soil, and born of such seed as his criminal hands had planted ? 
Dark, deep, and reckless, was the determination of his soul ; and 
wily, in the highest degree, was the confederate to whose aid in 
particular, its execution was to be intrusted. At this moment 
it need only be said that, in the mind of the conspirators, noth- 
ing appeared to baffle their desires but the condition of their 
chief. All things seemed easy. The fortune they implored, 
the fiend they served, the appetite which prompted, and the 
agents they employed, all subservient, were all in waiting ; and 
he who, of all, was to be most gratified by their services — ho 
alone was unable to make them available Well might he cursu 


320 


THE SCOUT. 


the folly which had brought him to his present state, and de- 
nounce the feebleness which delayed the last and crowning 
achievement on which liis hopes and desires were now set. His 
soul chafed with impatience. He had no resources from thought 
and contemplation. He could curse, but he could not pray ; 
and curses, as the Arabian proverb truly describes them, are like 
chickens, that invariably come home to roost. They brought 
neither peace nor profit to the sick bed of the invalid, and they 
kept refreshing slumbers from his pillow. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

PHILOSOPHICAL DOUBTS AND INQUIRIES. 

The angry feelings which the conduct of the outlaw had 
produced in the bosom of Mr. Surgeon Hillkouse, had driven, 
for the time, another affair from his recollection about which he 
was particularly desirous to speak with Miss Middleton or her 
grandmother. A ramble in the woods that same morning en- 
abled him to recover his temper and, with it, his recollection ; 
and when the dinner things were removed that day, he fairly 
conducted the old lady to the sofa, placed himself beside her, 
'and with looks big with the sagacious thought, and busy spec- 
ulation, he propounded himself as follows in a language some- 
what new to him, of sententious inquiry. 

“Mrs. Middleton — madam — pray oblige me by letting me 
know what sort of a looking person was your grandfather V’ 

“ My grandfather, sir — my grandfather !” 

“ Yes, madam, your grandfather — how did he look — how 
did he dress — was he tall or short — stout or slender. Did he 
wear breeches of blue homespun, a tattered hunting shirt of the 
same color and stuff; and was his couteau de chasse as long aa 
my arm V ’ 

• My grandfather, sir ! Why, sir, what do you mean V' 


PHILOSOPHICAL DOUBTS AND INQUIRIES. 


321 


“No harm, no offence, believe me, Mrs. Middleton — on the 
contrary, my question is prompted by grave doubts, and dif- 
ficulties, and, possibly, dangers ! No idle or impertinent curi- 
osity occasions it. Philosophy is seriously interested in your 
reply.” 

“My grandfather, sir — why he has been dead these hundred 
years ! I do not think I ever saw him.” 

“ Dead a hundred years ! Impossible ! Eh ! How can that 
be ?” demanded the surgeon in astonishment scarcely less than 
that which the old lady herself had manifested at the beginning ; 
— “dead a hundred years'? Really, Mrs. Middleton — there 
must be some mistake.” 

“Indeed, sir — then it is yours, not mine. My grandfather 
has been dead more than a hundred years. He died in France 
somewhere in 1080 — or ’SI ” 

“ Oh he died in France, did he ? You are right, madam, there 
is a mistake, and it is mine. To be sure it was not your grand- 
father — if he died in France — about whom I wished to know ; 
— it Avas Miss Middleton’s grandfather.” 

“ My husband, sir !” said the old lady bridling with dignity, 
while her keen gray eyes flashed with all the vivacity of girl- 
hood, as she conjectured the utterance of something impertinent 
from her companion. The surgeon felt his dilemma. 

“Your husband, Mrs. Middleton,” he stammered — “Can it 
be 1 ? Miss Middleton’s grandfather your husband?” 

“ And why not, sir when I have the honor to be her grand- 
mother V* 

“ True, true, most true, madam, but ” 

“ It does not alter the case very materially, sir, so far as you 
are interested. Your light is just as great to inquire into the 
private history of her grandfather as of mine. Pray, proceed in 
your questions, sir, if as you think, so much depends upon it. 
We are retired country people, it is true, Mr. Millliouse ” 

“ Hillhouse, madam — Augustus Hillhouse, of his majesty’s — ” 

“Pardon me, sir — Mr. Hillhouse — I was simply about to 
encourage you to ask your question by assuring you that, though 
retired and rustic, we are still not utterly insensible, on the 
brinks of the Congaree, to the claims of philosophy. I trust 


822 


THE SCOUT. 


to see her schools established here before 1 .lie,* and may, pos- 
sibly, have the pleasure of hearing you, yourself, expounding 
from one or other of her sacred chairs.” 

The surgeon bowed low at the unexpected compliment with 
out perceiving the smile of irony by which it was accompanied. 

“Ah, madam, you do me too much honor. I am but poorly 
fitted for the high station which you speak of. It is true, I am 
not indifferently read ; I have seen the world — a fair proportion 
of it at least ; and am considered very generally as a man fond 
of serious and severe investigations in the kindred temples of 
science and of nature, but ” 

“ Oh, sir, I have no sort of doubt that you will do well in any 
of the departments, and if ever we should be so fortunate as to 
obtain our liberties again, I have no doubt you will be thought 
of for some such situation.” 

“ Ahem ! — ahem ! Liberties ! — ah ! — ahem ! ” 

The termination of the sentence, which intimated a hope of 
British expulsion, was scarcely palatable to the surgeon. 

“ But, sir, on the subject of Miss Middleton’s grandfather — 
my husband — the late General Middleton — what would you 
please to know V * 

“Ahem — why, madam, the case presents itself in an aspect 
of increased difficulty. I had somehow confused it at first, and 
fancied when I spoke that I was addressing you on the subject 
jf a very ancient relation. The connection being so close ” 

“ Makes no sort of difference, sir, if your question conveys 
nothing disrespectful.” 

The reply of the old lady bewildered the surgeon yet further. 
He was not sure that something disrespectful might not be con- 
veyed to a very sensitive and jealous mind, in any form of the 
question, which was to solve his difficulties. In this state of be- 
wilderment, with something of desperation in his air, he p’o- 
posed another inquiry, seemingly so foreign to the previous topic 

* A hope which the venerable lady in question lived to realize. The College 
•f South Carolina, at Columbia, has been long in successful operation, and has 

the good fortune to have sent forth some of the best scholars and ablest states- 

men in the Union. Its increasing prosperity induces the confident assurance 
that it will long continue h ■ -<•. much usefulness and good. — Edit*** 


PHILOSOPHICAL DOUBTS AND INQUIRIES. 323 

that Mrs. Middleton began to think him insane ab well as 
silly.” 

“ Mrs. Middleton, do you believe in ghosts ?” 

“ Ghosts, sir! — a very singular question.” 

“Exactly so, madam, but it is a part of the subject.” 

“ Indeed, sir !” 

“ Yes, ma’am, and I should be really very grateful if you 
vvould say whether you do or do not believe in that supernatu- 
ral presence — that spectral visitation — that independent embodi- 
ment, in shape of limbs, sinews and substance, of the immortal 
spirit — which is vulgarly entitled an apparition, or ghost? Pro- 
fessionally, madam, as a surgeon, I’m not prepared to look fur- 
ther than the physical organization for the governing powers of 
the human form. A soul is a something that has eluded hitherto 
all the search of the anatomist, and the oidy authority which 
exists for such an agent, seems to me to be derived from testi- 
monials, more or less authenticated, of the presence and reap- 
pearance of those whom we have considered dead, and no longer 
capable of the uses and purposes, the feelings and the desires, 
of ordinary life. Now, madam, something of my first inquiry 
depends upon my last. Pray oblige me, then, by saying whether 
you do or do not believe in this marvellous anomaly. Do you 
believe in ghosts or not ?” 

“Well, sir, to oblige you, though I am at a loss to see the 
connection between the one question and the other ” 

“ It’s there — there is a connection, believe me.” 

“ Well, sir, under your assurance, or without it, I can have no 
objection to say that I am very doubtful what to believe on 
3uch a subject. So much has been said on both sides — and I 
have heard so many wonderful stories about such things, from 
persons of such excellent credit, that ” 

“ Enough, enough, madam ; I see you are not altogether in- 
credulous Now tell me, madam, did you ever yourself see a 
ghost r 

“ Never, sir.” 

“Never! — nor any thing, shape, substance, or person, that 
ever looked like one, or looked like nothing else but one, or that 
you had reason to suppo^. was one, or that resembled any de 


324 


,T J^ SCOUT. 


parted friend, relative, tie, connection, dependence — in short, 
did you never see anything that a suspicious mind might not 
have readily taken for a ghost ?” 

“ Never, sir, to my recollection.” 

“ Well, madam,” continued the surgeon, taking courage from 
his own motion, “on your answer will depend the very impor- 
tant doubt whether I, Augustus Hillliouse, second surgeon in his 
majesty’s 87th regiment of foot, have not been favored by the 
visitation of the late General Middleton ” 

“ Sir!” exclaimed the old lady, rising with a most queenly air 
of dignity and pride. 

“Yes, madam, that’s it!” replied the surgeon, rising also, and 
rubbing liis hands together earnestly. “ Here, while I lay on 
this very sofa, this very morning, after the breakfast was over, 
and Miss Middleton had gone — here, alone, I was favored by 
the sudden presence of one who might have risen from the floor, 
and, as far as I could see, sunk into it ; who might have been, 
nay, as I have heard, must have been; — but on this head I 
would have your testimony, and for this reason did I desire 
to learn from you in what costume it was usually the cus- 
tom for General Middleton to appear ? Oblige me, my dear 
madam, by a clear and particular description of his dress, his 
weapons, his height, breadth, general appearance, the length of 
his nose, and of his lmnting-knife ” 

“ Sir, this freedom — this scandalous freedom !” exclaimed the 
venerable matron. 

“ Do not be offended, Mrs. Middleton. I am governed, my 
dear madam, by no motives but those of the philosopher. I 
would thank you, then ” 

“ Sir, I must leave you. You trespass, sir, beyond your priv- 
ilege. The subject is a sacred one with the widow. Let me 
hear no more of it.” 

“But, my dear madam — one question only : — was he a tall 
person, slender, rather scant of frame — such a person as is vul* 
garly called raw-boned ” 

“ No more, Mr. Hillliouse, if you please.” 

“But his dress, madam — and his nose.” 

* Good morning, sir * 


PHjJ /)SOPHICAL DOUBTS AND INQUIRIES. 


325 


“His knife — was it long, very long — long as my aim ]' 5 

Tlie matron bowed, as she was retiring, with a stern glance 
of her gray eye, which would have confounded any person bin 
one so thoroughly absorbed in his philosophical follies as to be 
•ittei’v incapable of observation. He pursued her to the foot of 
the stairs with a degree of impetuous eagerness, which almost 
made the old lady fancy that he purposely sought to offend and 
annoy her — a conjecture whicli by no means served to lessen 
the hauteur of her retiring movements. 

“But, my dear madam, one word only'’ — implored the sur- 
geon in an agony of entreaty — “touching his costume ; only say 
whether it was of blue homespun, rather lightish in hue ; were 
his smallclothes rather scantish, and of the same color; — and 
his hunting frock — was it not a little tattered and torn about 
the skirts, and on the shoulder? — and 

‘ She goes, and makes no sign !’ ” 

was the sad quotation from Shakspere, with which he concluded 
and which fitly described the inflexible silence in which the 
matron effected her departure. 

“ Devilish strange animal is woman ! Here now is a question 
materially affecting the greatest mystery in our spiritual nature ; 
which a word of that old lady might enable me to solve, and she 
will not speak that word. And why ? Clearly, she was quite 
as anxious for the truth, at the beginning, as I was myself. But 
the secret is, that her pride stood in the way. Pride is half the 
time in favor of philosophy. Had her husband, instead of ap- 
pearing in the ordinary guise of one of the natives — which must 
bo confessed to be a very wretched taste — but put scarlet 
breeches on his ghost, the old woman would have been willing 
to acknowledge him. But she was ashamed of a ghost — even 
though it were her own husband — who should reappear in dingy 
blue homespun. And she was right. What ghost could hope 
to find faith, or respect, who paid so little attention to his personal 
appearance ? It seems to me, if I should ever have any desire 
to ‘revisit the glimpses of the moon,’ and the favor were afforded 
mo, I should be at quite as much trouble in making up my toilet 
as I am now ; nay, more, for the task would be accompanied 
by increased difficulty. The complexion of a ghost would re- 


32G 


THE SCOUT. 


quire a very nice selection of shades in costume. Whether my 
violet would not be the most suitable ? Really, the question in 
creases in interest. I shall certainly study it carefully. The 
delicacy of the violet is an argument in its favor, but some def- 
erence must be shown to the universal judgment of ages, which 
represents ghosts as commonly appearing in white. To this, tin- 
case of Hamlet’s father and General Middleton furnish the only 
exceptions that I remember. How then should a ghost be hab- 
ited? How should I be habited, appearing as a ghost? The 
query is one of delicate interest. I must consult with myself, 
my pocket mirror, and the lovely Flora Middleton !” 

This dialogue, and these grave reflections, resulted in the 
temporary exhaustion of the surgeon. He yawned listlessly, 
and once more threw himself upon the sofa where he had been 
favored with his ghostly visitation ; but, on this occasion, he 
took special care that his face should front the entrance. Here 
he surrendered himself for a while to those dreaming fancies 
with which the self-complacent are fortunately enabled to recom- 
pense themselves for the absence of better company ; and pas- 
sing, with the rapidity of insect nature, from flower to flower, 
his mind soon lost, in the hues which it borrowed as it went, 
every trace of that subject to which it had been seemingly 
devoted with so much earnestness. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Middleton joined her grand-daughter in the 
chamber of poor Mary Clarkson. It needed not the verdict of 
the surgeon to declare that she must die ; and all his professional 
jargon could not have persuaded the spectator, who gazed upon 
her pale and wretched features, to believe that she could by any 
possibility survive. The eternal fiat had gone forth. The mes- 
senger of mercy — for such, happily, was the angel of death to 
her — was on his way. She might sink in a few hours, she 
might live as many days, but she was evidently dying. But 
there was a strange life and brightness in her eyes. The vital- 
ity of her glance was heightened. by delirium into intense spiritu- 
ality. She keenly surveyed the persons in attendance with a 
jealous and suspicious glance, the cause of which they could 
only ascribe to the mind’s wandering. Her eyes turned evci 
from them to the entrance of the apartment; and once, when 


PHILOSOPHICAL DOUBTS AND INQUIRIES. 


327 


Flora Middleton went to place an additional pillow beneath hel 
head, she grasped her hand convulsively, and murmured with 
the most piteous accents — 

“ Take him not from me — not yet — not till I am dead, and 
in the cold, cold grave ! Why will you take him from me ? I 
never did you harm !” 

Very much shocked, Flora shuddered, but replied — 

“ Of whom speak you, my poor girl ? — what would you have 
me do ?” 

“Of whom? — of him! Surely you know? — of Conway! 
Take him not from me — not — not till I am in the grave ! 
Then — oh then ! — it will not need then ! No ! no !” 

The interval of sense was brief, but how painful to the listen- 
ing maiden ! 

“Fear nothing !” said Flora, somewhat proudly. “God for- 
bid that I should rob you of any of your rights.” 

“ Oh ! but you can not help it ! — you can not help it !” cried 
the sufferer. “I know — I know what it is to love — and to 
suffer for it! But, will you not let me see him — let me go to 
him — or bid them bring him here to me! I can not die till I 
have seen him !” 

“ That can not be, my poor girl ; he is not here. He is gone. 
I trust that God will enable you to live to see him.” 

“ He is gone ! You mean that he is dead ! Ha ! — can it be 
that ? I did not come in time ! I saw them fight ! I heard 
them swear and strike — hard — heavy blows, with sharp steel! 
Oh, God ! that brothers should fight, and seek to destroy each 
other ! I called to them to stop ; but I saw their heavy blows ; 
and when I ran to part them — I fell, and such a pain! My 
poor, poor head ! He killed us both — the cruel brother! — he 
killed us both with his heavy blows.” 

“ My poor girl,” said Flora, “ do not make yourself miserable 
with this mistake. Believe what I tell you. Mr. Clarence 
Conway is in no danger ; he escaped. The only sufferer is Mr. 
Edward Conway, who is hurt. He lies in the opposite chamber.” 

The words of the speaker were drowned in the shrieks of the 
sufferer, now once more, a maniac. Successive screams of a 
mixed emotion — a something of delight and agony in "lie utter- 


828 


THE SCOUT. 


ance — followed the communication of Flora Middleton, and were 
followed by a desperate effort of the poor girl to rise from the 
bed and rush from the apartment. It required all the strength 
of an able-bodied female slave, who watched with her young 
mistress in the apartment, to keep her in the bed ; and the re- 
straint to which she was subjected only served to increase her 
madness, and render her screams more piercing and intolerable 
than ever. Her wild, anguished words filled the intervals 
between each successive scream. But these were no longer 
coherent. When she became quieted at length, it was only 
through the exhaustion of all the strength which sustained her 
during the paroxysm. Strong aromatics and strengthening 
liquors were employed to restore her to consciousness ; and the 
scientific exquisite from below, startled from his dreaming mood 
by the summons of the servant, was sufficiently impressed by 
the painful character of the spectacle he witnessed, to apply 
himself in earnest to the task of restoring her, without offending 
the good taste of the ladies by the exercise of his customary 
garrulity. She was brought back to life, and the keen scrutiny 
of Flora Middleton discovered, as she' fancied, that her senses 
were also restored. 

There was an air of cunning in the occasionally upturned 
glance of her half-shut eye, which forced this conviction upon 
the spectator. When Flora changed her position, the eye of 
the sufferer followed her movements with an expression of curi- 
osity, which is one of the most natural forms of intelligence. 
She had also become, on a sudden, excessively watchful. Every 
sound that was heard from without aroused her regards ; and, 
when she saw that she was noticed by those around her, her 
own glance was suddenly averted from the observer, with an 
air of natural confusion. 

These were signs that warned Flora of the necessity of giving 
her the most patient and scrupulous attention. It was obvious 
to all that she could not survive that night. The surgeon, rub- 
bing his hands at nightfall, gave his ultimatum to this effect ; 
and yielded up his charge as hopeless ; and the gloomy feelings 
of Flora Middleton were somewhat modif ed when she reflected 
that death could not possibly be a misfortune to one to whom 


THE AVENGER BAFFLED. 


329 


life seemed to have borne only the aspects of unmixed evil 
What should she live for? More neglect — more shame^ — more 
sorrow ! — the blow that forces the victim to the dust, and mocks 
at his writhings there. Mary Clarkson had surely endured 
enough of this already. It could not be the prayer of friendship 
which would desire her to live only for its sad continuance ; and 
to live at all, must be, in the case of that hapless creature, to 
incur this agonizing penalty. But. Flora Middleton could still 
pray for the victim. Forgiveness might be won for her errors, 
and, surely, where the penalties of folly and of sin are already 
so great in life, the mercy of Heaven will not be too rigorously 
withheld. This was her hope, and it may well be ours. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE AVENGER BAFFLED. 

The screams of the maddened victim of his lust and selfish- 
ness, had reached the ears of Edward Morton in his chamber. 
They had startled him from slumbers, which no doubt, had their 
images of terror, such as thronged about the couch of Richard, 
and sat heavy upon his soul. The piercing agony of those 
shrieks must have strangely tallied with his dreams, for he 
started almost erect in his couch, his eyes wild and staring, his 
hair moist yet erect, his words broken, thick, and incoherent. 
His attendant, Watson Gray, who had been a faithful watcher 
beside his couch, ran to him, and pressed him gently back upon 
the pillows, using such language as he fancied might soothe to 
quiet his nervous excitation ; but, as the shrieks were continued, 
and seemed to acquire greater volume with each successive 
utterance, there was still an influence, beyond his power of 
soothing, to keep the guilty and wounded man in a state of 
agitation. 

“ What mean these hideous cries, Gray ? was there not some 
one besides yourself in my chamber before they began ? Did 
they take nobody hence — now, now — but now ?” 


830 


THE SCOUT. 


" No ! you have been dreaming only. You are feverish. Be 
quiet — 'on your keeping quiet depends everything.” 

“ So it does ; but can’t you silence those noises ? I should 
know those tones. Can it be — are they Mary’s? Is she 
dying?” 

The question was put by the outlaw in low, husky tones, 
which were scarcely audible. The answer was necessarily ut- 
tered in the affirmative, though Gray was reluctant to speak 
the truth, and would have readily availed himself of a false- 
hood, had a plausible one that moment suggested itself to his 
mind. 

“ They are operating upon her, perhaps ?” continued Morton ; 

“ that d d fellow of a surgeon ! — he cares not what pain he 

gives her.” 

“No, captain, there is no operation necessary. The doctor 
says it’ll be all over with her soon. He’s given her hurts the 
last dressing that she’ll ever need.” 

“ Ha ! she will then die ! She told me of this ! I remember ; 
but I did not believe ! I would to God she might be saved, 
Gray ! Can nothing still be done ? See the surgeon ; let him 
do his best. I’m afraid you’ve let her suffer.” 

“ No, every thing’s been done. Old Mrs. Middleton and Miss 
Flora have been nursing and watching her the best part of the 
time themselves.” 

“ And there is then no hope ? Poor Mary ! Could she be 
brought up again, I should be more kind to her, Gray. I have 
been more of a savage to that poor, loving creature, than to any 
other human being ; and I know not why, unless it was that she 
loved me better than all others. What a strange nature is that 

of man — mine, at least How d nably perverse has my spirit 

been throughout; — actually, and always, at issue with its own 
blessing. Ah ! that shriek ! — shut it out, Gray — close the door 
— it goes like a sharp, keen arrow to my brain !” 

Under the momentary goadings of remorse, the outlaw buried 
his face in the bed-clothes, and strove to exclude from hearing 
the piercing utterance of that wo which was bom of his wicked- 
ness. But, for a time, the effort was in vain. The heart-rending 
accents pursued him, penetrated the thin barriers which would 


THE AVENGER BAFFLED. 


331 


have excluded them from the ears of the guilty man, and roused 
him finally to a state of excitement which Watson Gray mo- 
mentarily dreaded would drive him to a condition of deliriuar- 
little short of hers. But, suddenly, the cries of terror ceased . 
so suddenly, that the outlaw started with a shudder at the unex 
pected and heavy silence. 

u It is all over with her. She is dead. Go you and see, 
Gray. Quickly, go ! and tell me. Poor Mary ! I could have 
been more just to her had her claims been less. I can not be 
lieve that she is dead. No ! no ! — not yet; though once I was 
wretch enough to wish it. Forgive me ! God forgive me, for 
that wish !” 

The voice of the outlaw subsided to a whisper. A cold shud- 
der passed through his frame. His eyes were closed with terror. 
He fancied that the freed spirit of the woman whom he supposed 
dead, hovered above him, ere it took its final departure. Even 
the whispering accents which followed from his lips broke forth 
in spasmodic ejaculations. 

“ Forgive me, Mary ; forgive ! forgive ! I should have lovec. 
you better. I have been a wretch — a cold, selfish, unfeeling 
wretch! I knew not your worth — your value — and now! 
Ha! who is there? who? — ah, Gray, is it you? Sit by me; 
take my hand in yours. Well, she is gone — she sleeps.” 

Gray had resumed his place by the bedside, while the eyer 
of the trembling criminal were closed. His approach startled 
i lie nervous man with a thrilling confirmation of the partial su- 
poniatural fear which had before possessed him. 

“ She sleeps,” said Gray, “ but is not dead. Her paroxysm 
has gone off; and, perhaps, she will only waken when death 
comes on.” 

“ Ah ! what a foolish terror possessed me but now. I fancied 
that she was beside me! — I could have sworn I heard her 
faintly whispering in my ears. What a coward this weakness 
makes me.” 

“ Try to sleep, captain. Remember how much depends 
upon your soon getting well. We have a great deal to do, you 
know.” 

44 Ah, true ; you are a cool, sensible fellow, Gray. I will tr^ 


332 


TRE SCOUT. 


to sleep, but those dreams — those hideous dreams. Keep be- 
side me, Gray — do not leave me.” 

The slight reference which Gray had made to his worldly 
schemes and grosser passions, recalled the outlaw to his habitual 
self. lie turned his head upon the pillow, while Gray took one 
of his hands quietly within his own. Sitting thus beside him 
it was not long before he discovered that the outlaw had sunt 
into a regular slumber ; and, releasing his hold, he laid him 
self down at. the foot of the bed, under the influence of a natural 
exhaustion, which soon brought a deeper sleep upon his senses 
than that which possessed those of his superior. 

Night meanwhile stole onward with noiseless foot&tep, and a 
deep silence overspread the whole barony. The sleep of the 
outlaw was long, deep and refreshing. It indicated a favorable 
condition of his wounds, such as Watson Gray had predicted. 
The poor victim in the neighboring chamber seemed to sleep 
also, but her repose promised no such agreeable results. The 
lamp of life was flickering with uncertain light. The oil of the 
vessel was nearly exhausted. Flora Middleton approached her 
about midnight, and so still was her seeming sleep, so breath- 
lessly deep did her slumbers appear, so composed her features, 
and so rigid her position, that the maiden was struck with the 
thought that the last sad change had already taken place. But, 
as she stooped over the face of the sleeper, her silken ringlets 
were slightly shaken by the faint breathing from her half-closed 
lips, which still betrayed the presence of the reluctant and lin 
gering life. She appeared to sleep so sweetly and soundly that 
Flora determined to snatch a few moments of repose also. She 
needed such indulgence. She had robbed herself of many 
hours of accustome.1 sleep, in watching and waiting upon the 
wakeful sufferings of her involuntary guest. Calling in the 
servant whose own slumbers never suffered impediment or in- 
terruption in any situation, she resigned the invalid to her care, 
giving her special instructions to keep a good watch, and to 
summon her instantly when any change in the patient was at 
hand. 

Mira, the negro woman to whom this trust was given, was one of 
the staid family servants such as are to be found in every ancient 


TIT*. AVENGER BAFFLED 


833 


southern household, who ^rm a necessary part of the establish- 
ment, and are, substantially, members, from long use and habit, 
of the family itself. The children grow up under their watchful 
oyes, and learn to love them as if they were mothers, or at least 
rrandmothers, maiden aunts, or affectionate anting rousing, who 
win tlieir affections by bringing bon-oons in their pockets, and 
*oin them in all their noisy games. They rebuke the rudeness 
>f the young, follow their steps in their errant progress, warn 
them of danger, and put them to bed at night. Mira was one of 
t.nese valuable retainers, who had watched the childhood of 
flora, and received from the latter all the kindness which she 
certainly deserved. 

“ Now, Mauma,” said Flora, at leaving her, “ don’t go to sleep. 
Fou’ve slept all the evening, and can surely keep wakeful till I 
come. Call me the moment the poor girl Wakens, or if you see 
any difference.” 

Mira promised everything, took her seat beside the couch of 
the patient, and really set out with a serious determination to 
keep her eyes open to the last. But when did a negro ever 
resist that most persuasive, seductive, and persevering of all in- 
fluences in the South, particularly in the balmy month of June ? 
When did sleep deign to solicit, that he was not only too happy 
to embrace ] Mira soon felt the deep and. solemn stillness of the 
scene. The events of the few days previous had excited her 
along with the rest ; and the exhaustion of her faculties of reflec- 
tion, which is always a rapid affair in all the individuals of her 
~ace, necessarily made her more than ever susceptible to sleep. 
To do her all justice, however, she made the most strenuous 
efforts to resist the drowsy influence. She began several grave 
discussions with herself, but in an undm-tone, on the occurrences 
of the week. She discussed the merits of the sundry prominent 
persons she had seen — Rawdon and the Conways — not forget 
the assistant surgeon, whom sue resolved was either a prince or 
a “ poor buckrah ” in his own counfry, but which — and a vast 
interval lay between — sue aid i undertake to say. But the 
lamp burned dimly ne hearth — the shadows that flitted 
upon the walls, in e yrrcspondcncc with its flickering light, in- 
creased the gloom - ■ r! - r -it ho! beside her was apparently sunk 


ns4 


THE SCOUT. 


in the deepest slumber, and it. was in vain for the poor negro Sr 
contend with the magnetic influence. Her head was gradually 
bent forward, and, at length, lay upon the bedside. It was not 
long after this when she slept quite as soundly as if this blessing 
had never before been vouchsafed her. 

When she slept, the patient ceased to do so. With that cun- 
ning which is said to mark most kinds of delirium, she had 
feigned the slumbers which she was never more to know. She 
perceived that she was watched — she knew that she was re 
strained ; and, sane on one subject only, she had employed the 
little sense that suffering had left her in deceiving her keepers. 
From the moment when she was told that Edward Morton occu- 
pied a neighboring chamber, the only desire which remained to 
her in life was to see him before she died. For this had she 
raved in her paroxysm, but they did not comprehend her : and 
the strong leading desire of her mind had so far brought back 
her capacities of thought and caution, as to enable her to effect 
her object. When she saw Flora Middleton leave the chamber, 
her hopes strengthened ; and, when the negro slept beside her, 
she rose from the couch, stealthily, and with a singular strength, 
which could only be ascribed to the fever in her system, and the 
intense desire — a fever in itself — which filled her mind. With 
a deliberation such as the somnambulist is supposed to exhibit, 
and with very much the appearance of one, she lifted the little 
lamp which was burning within the chimney, and treading firmly, 
but with light footstep, passed out of the apartment into the 
great passage-way of the mansion, without disturbing the fast- 
sleeping negro who had been set to watch beside her. 

Meanwhile, her miserable and scarcely more sane father, was 
inhabiting the neighboring woods, and prowling about the prem- 
ises of Brier Park, as the gaunt wolf hovers for his prey at 
evening, around the camp of the western squatter. The woods 
formed a convenient and accustomed shelter, and but little wat 
required to satisfy his wants. He had but one large, leading 
appetite remaining, and food was only desirable as it might sup 
ply the necessary strength for the gratification of that appetite 
Animal food did not often pass his lips — ardent spirits never 
The stimulus derived from the one desire of his soul was enough 


THE AVENGER BAFFLED. 805 

for Lis sustenance. Roots, acorns, and such stray bounty as 
could be stealthily furnished by the neighboring farmer or liis 
slave, from the cornfield or the potato-patch, had been, since the 
beginning of the Revolution, the uncertain resource of all the 
“ poor bodies that were out.” 

As one of these, Clarkson now found it easy to obtain the 
adequate supply of his creature wants, while in the neighbor- 
hood of Brier Pa^k. He soon discovered that he could approach 
the negro houses, the kitchen, and finally, the mansion itself, 
without incurring 'much, if any risk. The soldiers who hf,d been 
left behind, nominally to protect the ladies, but really as a safe- 
guard to the wounded outlaw, were careless upon their watch. 
Though stationed judiciously and counselled earnestly by Wat- 
son Gray, they saw no cause for apprehension ; and conjectured 
that the scout simply cried “Avolf,” in order to establish his own 
importance. He cautioned and threatened them, for he knew 
the sort of persons he had to deal with ; but as soon as his back 
was turned, they stole away to little nooks in the wood, where, 
over a log, with a greasy pack of cards, they gambled away 
their sixpences, and sometimes their garments, with all the reck- 
lessness which marks the vulgar nature. 

Clarkson soon found out their haunts, watclfed them as they 
stole thither, and then traversed the plantation at his leisure. 
In this manner he had ascertained all the secrets that he deemed 
it necessary to know. As his whole thought was addressed to 
the one object, so he neither asked for, nor heard, the informa- 
tion which concerned any other. To knew where Edward Con- 
way lay was the only knowledge which he desired ; and thi c 
information he gained from one of the house servants. He had 
once penetrated to the door of the outlaw’s chamber, but, on 
this occasion, a timely glimpse of Watson Gray aud Mr. Hill- 
house, warned him that the hour of vengeance must still fur- 
ther be delayed. 

That night, however, of which we have spoken, seemed aus- 
picious to his object. The skies were cloudy, and the moon 
obscured. A faint gray misty light pervaded the extent of space. 
The woods looked more gloomy than ever beneath it, and when 
the sentinels found that ‘W mansion had sunk into its usual 


336 


THE SCOUT. 


pfennig quiet, they stole away to an outhouse, and were soon 
swallowed up in the absorbing interests of Jamaica rum and 
“ old sledge.” Clarkson looked in upon them as he went for- 
ward to the house ; but he took no interest in them or their 
proceedings, when they were once out of his way. He pene- 
trated to the house without interruption, ascended the stairs, and 
passed with impunity into the very chamber of the outlaw. 

The lamp was nearly extinguished in the chimney. A faint 
light was thrown around the apartment, not sufficient to pene- 
trate the gloom at the remoter ends of it, and it had been par- 
ticularly placed bi such a manner as to prevent it from playing 
upon the face of the suffering man. In consequence of this 
arrangement, the greater part of the couch lay entirely ir 
shadow ; and while Clarkson was looking about him in doubt 
which way to proceed, he distinguished the person of Watson 
Gray, lying almost at his feet upon the floor. 

A glance at his face sufficed to show that he was not the man 
he sought ; and, passing around the body of the sleeper, he cau- 
tiously approached the bed, and drawing the curtains on one 
side, was aware, from the deep breathing, and the occasional 
sigh which reached his ears, that the man for whom he had been 
so long in pursuit of was lying before him. His heart had long 
been full of the desire for vengeance, and liis knife was ready 
in his hand. It wanted but sufficient light to show him where 
to strike with fatal effect, and the blow would have been given. 
He had but to feel for the breast of his enemy, and the rest was 
easy. He was about to do so, when the light in the apartment 
was suddenly increased. He looked up with momentary appre- 
hension. The opposite curtain was drawn aside in the same 
moment, and he beheld, with terror, what he believed to be the 
apparition of his long-perished daughter. 

Certainly, no spectre could have worn a more pallid or awful 
countenance — no glance from eyes that had once been mortal, 
tould have shone with more supernatural lustre. The light of 
delirium and fever was there — and the wild, spiritual gleam, 
which looks out, in fitful spasms, from the hollow sockets of the 
ivins: The glances of father and daughter met in the same in 


THE AVENGER RAFFLED 3£? 

stant, and what a life of mutual uo, and terror, and desolation, 
did they each convey ! 

A shriek from both was the result of that unlooked-for en 
counter. The light dropped from the hands of the dying girl, 
upon the bed, and was extinguished ; the dagger fell harmlessly 
from his, beside the bosom it was meant to stab. Her hollow 
voice sounded in his cars, and the words she spoke confirmed all 
nis terrors. 

“My father! Oh! my father !” was the exclamation forced 
from her by the suddenly recovered memory of the painful pa;t • 
and as lie heard it, he darted away, in headlong flight, heedless 
of the body of Watson Gray, upon which, in his terrors, he 
trampled, without a consciousness of having done so. 

The spectral form of the girl darted after him. He saw hci 
white garments, as he bounded down the stair-flights, and the 
glimpse lent vigor to his limbs. lie heard her voice, faint and 
feeble, like the moaning whisper of the dying breeze in autumn, 
imploring him to stay; and it sounded more terribly in his ears 
than the last trumpet. A painful consciousness of having, by 
his cruelty, driven the poor girl to the desperate deed of self- 
destruction, haunted his mind ; and her appearance seemed to 
him that of one armed with all the terrors of the avenger. It 
will not be thought wonderful by those who are at all conver- 
sant with the nature of the human intellect, and with the strange 
spiritual touches that move it to and fro at will, to state that the 
effect of her father’s presence had suddenly restored his daugh- 
ter to her senses. At least, she knew that it was her father 
whom she pursued — she knew that he had spurned her from his 
presence, and her present consciousness led her to implore his 
forgiveness and to die. She knew that the hand of death was 
upon her, but she desired his forgiveness first. The knowledge 
of her situation gave her the requisite strength for the pursuit, 
and before her pathway could be traced, she had followed His 
steps into the neighboring forest 


338 


tRe SCOUT. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE FATHER AXD HIS CHILD. 

Clarkson, with all the terrors of superstitious fright pursuing 
him, yet with all the instinct of a scout, sought shelter in the 
woods from all pursuit, whether supernatural or human. He fled 
with the speed of the hunted deer, and had soon left far behind him 
the fainting form of liis shadow , pursuer. But of this he knew 
nothing. He looked not once after him. upon leaving the house. 
Buried in the woods, lie was still pressing his way forward, when 
a voice which, at another time, would have been familiar and 
friendly in his ears, addressed him, and summoned him to stop. 
But, under the prevailing apprehension of his heart, he fancied 
it the same voice of terror which had risen from the grave to 
rebuke him, and this conviction increased the terror and rapidity 
of his flight. A footstep as fleet as his own now joined in the 
pursuit. He heard the quick tread behind, and finally beside 
him, and, desperate with the feeling that he was overtaken, he 
turned wildly to confront his pursuer. A hand of flesh and 
blood w r as laid upon his shoulder at the same moment, and the 
voice of our old friend John Bannister reassured him, and recon- 
ciled him to delay. 

“By Jings ! ” exclaimed the woodman, “if I didn’t know you to 
have the real grit in you, Jake Clarkson, I would think you was 
getting to be rather timorsomc in your old age. Wliat’s the matter, 
man? — what’s flung you so ! ” 

“ Ah, John ! is that you?” — and the frig tened man grappled 
the hand of the new-comer with fingers that were cold and clammy 
with the fears that were working in his heart. 

“I reckon it is. I suppose you thought by this time, that 
Lord Rawdon and the Black Riders had made a breakfast upon 
me, keeping a chip of me, here and there, to stay their march- 
ing stomachs upon. But, you see there’s more ways than one of 


THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD. 


339 


slipping a lialter, when a horse can borrow a friend’s finger to 
help his teeth. The acorn ain’t planted yet that’s to make my 
swinging tree. I’m here, old man, and out of their clutches* 
I’m thinking, without losing any of my own hide, and bringing with 
me a very good sample of theirs. As keen a nag, Jake Clarkson, 
as ever was taken from the Philistines lies in that ’ere bog — a 
fifty-guinea nag. I’ve spoiled the Egyptians in my captivity. 
Come and look at the critter.” 

“Ah, John, I’m so glad to see you. Stand by me — and 
look.” 

‘ ‘ Stand by you, and look ! Why, what’s to look upon ? — what’s 
to hurt you ? what’s scared you ? The woods was never more 
quiet. I’ve been all round the barony, and their guard is half 
drunk and half asleep In an old log cabin between the J stables 
and the negro houses. They can do no hurt, I tell you.” 

“Not them, John — you don’t think I mind them ? But, hear, 
you! I’ve seen her /” His voice sunk to a hoarse whisper, and , 
he looked behind him, over the path he came, with undiminished 
terrors. 

“Her? Who? Who’s her?” 

‘ Mary ! Poor Mary ! The child I killed ! — the poor child ! 

‘ Ha ! — she still lives then ! ” 

‘No! no! — her ghost. Her sperit ! It walks! Oh! John 
Bannister — ’twas a dreadful, dreadful sight. I went to kill Ned 
Conway. He’s lying there, wounded in the house. I’ve been 
watching here in the woods, ever since the British went. I went 
several times into the house, but couldn’t get a chance at him 
till to-niglit. To-night, I got to his room. It was so dark 
I couldn’t see how he lay in the bed ; and when I was feeling 
for him the curtain d rawed up on one side, and then I saw Mary 
— poor Mary — whiter than the driven snow, all in a sudden 
blaze of light. Oh ! how dreadful white she looked ! How aw- 
ful bright her eyes shone at me. I couldn’t stand it ; I couldn’t 
look ; and when she spoke to me, I felt all over choking. .list 
then, it suddenly turned dark, and I run, and when I looked 
back she was coming after me. She didn’t seem to run or 


340 


THE SCOCJT. 


walk; slie seemed to e:>me with the air; and to fly between the 
trees ” 

* “What! you didn’t see her after you left the house, did 
ou 1” 

“ Yes ! oh yes ? She flew after me into the woods.” 

The woodman struck his head with his palm, as, readily con- 
ceiving the true ground for Clarkson’s terrors, he thought of the 
wounded and dying girl in a paroxysm of delirium, flying into 
the rugged forest at midnight. 

“ Stay here, stay awhile, Jake, while I go !” said he. 

“Don’t go — don’t leave me!” implored the old man. “It’s 
I that killed her, John, by ,my cruelty. I driv’ her away from 
the house, and she went mad and drowned herself in the Con- 
garee ; and she haunts me for it. She’s here near us now, 
watching for you to go. Don’t go, John ; don’t leave me now. 
If you do, I’ll run to the river. I’ll drown myself after her.” 

Bannister found some difficulty in soothing the superstitious 
terrors of the old man, but he at length succeeded in doing so 
in sufficient degree to persuade him to remain where he was, in 
waiting, till he •went forward toward the mansion. 

“ I’ll whistle to you the old whistle,” said the woodman, “ as 
I’m coming back. But don’t you be scared at anything you 
see. I’m sure there’s no ghost that ain’t a nateral one. I’ve 
never known the story of a ghost yet that it didn’t turn out to 
be a curtain in the wind, a white sheet hung out to dry, or mout 
be — sich things will scare some. people — a large moss-beard 
hanging down upon a green oak’s branches. If a man’s to bo 
scared by a ghost, Jake Clarkson, I give him up for a scout.- or 
even for a soldier. He won’t do for the woods. There’s not an 
owl in an old tree that ain’t his master — there’s not a piece of 
rotten wood shining in the bottom, that ain’t a devil ready to 
run off with him. The squirrel that jumps in the bush, and the 
lizard that runs upon the dry leave-s, is a little sort of * a com- 
mg-to-cateh-me,’ for sich a person ; and, God help him, i i pine- 
burr should drop on his head when he ain’t thinking. If his 
heart don’t jump out of his mouth, quicker than ever a green 
frog jumped out of a black snake’s hollow, then I’m no man to 
know anything about scouting. No, no ! Jake Clarkson, t’won* 


THE FATHER AND IHS OIIILD. 


341 


'Jo for you that’s been counted a strong m^n, who didn’t fear 
the devil nor the tories, to be taking fright at a something that’a 
more like x dream than anything serious. It’s nothing but 
what’s nateral that’s scared you, I'm thinking, and jist you keep 
quiet till I go back and see. They can’t scare me with their 
blue jglits and burning eyes. My mother was a woman, with 
the soul of a man, that had the real grit in her. I was only 
scared once in my life, and then she licked the scare out of me, 
so complete that that ono licking’s lasted me agin any scare that 
ever happened since.” 

“ But my child — my poor child — the child that I killed, John 
Bannister,” said the father in reproachful accents. 

“ Well, there’s something in that, Jake Clarkson, I m willing 
to admit. When a man’s done a wrong thing, if anything’s 
right to scare him, it’s that. But though you was cross, and too 
cross, as I told you, to poor Mary, yet it’s not reasonable to 
think you killed her : and I’ll lay my life on it, if you saw 
Mary Clarkson to-night you saw the real Mary, and no make 
b’lieve — no ghost! Blit I’ll go and see, and if there’s any 
truth to he got at, trust me to pick it up somewhere along the 
track. Keep you quiet here, and mind to answer my whistle.” 

The woodman hurried away, with cut waiting To answer the 
inquiries of the unhappy father, whom the words of the former 
had led to new ideas. The suggestion, thrown out by Ban- 
nister, that Mary Clarkson might be yet alive, was intended by 
the scout to prepare the mind of the former for a pi\ bable 
meeting between himself and his child. He left him consequent- 
ly in a singular state of impatient agitation, which was far more 
exhausting to the physical man, than would have been the en- 
counter of a dozen foes in battle; and, with a feebleness which 
looked like one of the forms of paralysis, and had its effects for 
a time, the old man sank upon the ground at the foot of a tree, 
and groaned with the very pain of imbecility. 

Bannister, meanwhile, took his way hack in the direction of 
the mansion, and as nearly as possible along the route upon 
whkh he supposed his companion to have run. His judgment 
proved correct in this, as in most particulars. He had barely 
emerged from the thicker wood-*, and got upon the edge of the 


THE SCOUT. 


342 

immediate 'enclosure which circumscribed the area of the house 
hold, when his eye was caught by a white heap which lay 
within thirty yards of the woods. He approached it, and found 
it to he the object of his search. 

The poor girl was stretched upon the ground immovable. 
The small degree of strength with which the momentary par- 
oxysm had inspired her, had passed away, and she lay supine ; — 
her eyes were opened and watching the woods to which her 
father had fled. Her hands were stretched outward in the same 
direction. Death was upon her, but the weight of his hand 
was not heavy, and his sting did not seem to be felt. A slight 
moaning sound escaped her lips, but it was rather the utterance 
of the parting breath than of any sensation of pain which she 
experienced. John Bannister knelt down beside her. The 
stout man once more found himself a boy. 

“This then,” was the thought which filled his brain — “this 
then, is the sweet little girl whom I once loved so much !” 

She knew him. A faint smile covered her features, and al- 
most the last effort of her strength, enabled her to point to the 
woods, and to exclaim : — 

“ My father ! my father ! — There ! Bear me to him, John.” 

The hand fell suddenly, the voice was silent, the lips were 
closed. A shiver shook the limbs of the strong man. 

“ Mary ! Mary !” he called huskily. 

Her eyes unclosed. She was not dead. There was still life, 
and there might be time to place her in the arms of her father 
before it was utterly gone. A noise in the direction of the 
mansion, and the appearance of lights in the avenue, determined 
the prompt woodman. He wound his arms tenderly about her, 
raised her to his bosom, laid her head on his shoulder, and as if 
she had been a mere infant in his grasp, darted forward into the 
cover of the woods. The alarm had evidently been given at 
the mansion, he heard the voices of the household, and the sud 
den clamors of the half-sober and half-sleeping soldiery. But 
he defied pursuit and search, as, hounding off, in the well- 
known route, he soon placed his burden at the foot of her 
father. 

“ Here, Clarkson, here is your daughter. Here is pool Mary 


THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD. 


343 


She was not drowned. She lives, Jake Clarkson, but she has 
not long to live. She’s going fast. Be quick — look at her, and 
talk softly !” 

Clarkson hounded to his feet, gazed w r ith convulsive tremors 
upon the pale, silent form before him, then, with the shriek of a 
most miserable joy, he clasped her in his arms. Her eyes 
opened upon him. He held her from him that he might ths 
better meet their gaze. She smiled, threw herself forward upon 
his breast, and was buried within his embrace. In a wild in- 
coherent speech, of mixed tenderness and reproach, he poured 
forth the emotions of his heart — the pangs of years — the pleas- 
ures of the moment — the chiding of his own cruelty, and her 
misdeeds. But she answered nothing — she heard nothing. 
Neither praise nor blame could touch or penetrate the dull, cold 
car of death. She was, at length, at rest. 

“ Speak to me, dear Mary. Only tell me that you forgive me 
all, as John Bannister can tell you I have forgiven you.” 

“She will never speak again, Jacob. It’s all over. She’s 
got rid of the pain, and the trouble, and the vexation of this life; 
and 1 reckon she’ll have no more in the next ; for God knows, 
jist as well as 1, that she’s had a great deal more than her 
share.” 

“ You don’t say she’s dead V ’ said Clarkson huskily. 

“ Well, except for the pain of it, she’s been dead a long time, 
Jacob. But she don’t hear you, I reckon, and she don’t feel 
your arms, though you hold her so close to you. Give her to 
me, Jacob, that I may carry her deeper into the bay. The 
lights from the house are coming close, and they may find us 
here.” 

“Let ’em come! — who cares? They won’t want h«r now 
she’s dead !” 

“No ; but they may want us, Jacob.” 

“Let them want, and let them seek! We’re ready ! We’ll 
fight, I reckon !” and his fingers were clutched together convul- 
sively, as if the weapon were still within their grasp. 

“ Yes, we’ll fight,” said Bannister, “ but not here, and not tili 
we put her out of the way. ’Twon’t be right to fight, anybody 
where she is — not in her presence, as I may say.” 


J44 


TEE SCOUT. 


“ True, true,” replied the other faintly ; “ but 1 ll carry her, 
John.” 

Bannister did not object, but led the way to the thicket, while 
the father followed with his burden. There, the woodman drew 
forth his matchbox and struck a light, and the two sat down to 
survey the pale spiritual features of one who had certainly held 
a deep place in the affections of both. It was a curious survey. 
Their place of retreat was one of those dense sombre masses of 
the forest where, even in midday, the wholesome daylight never 
thoroughly came. The demi-obscure alone — 

“ The little glooming' light most like a shade,” 

declared the meridian hour ; while at midnight the place was 
dark as Erebus. The broad circumferences of oaks, the lofty 
stretch of ever-moaning pines, gathered close and solemnly 
around as if in secret council ; while vines and leaves, massed 
together in the intervals above, effectually roofed in the spot 
with a dread cathedral vastness and magnificence. The spot had 
been freely used before by the outlyers, and more than one com- 
fortable bed of dried leaved might be discovered under the oaks. 

On one of these the body of the girl was laid. A few paces 
distant from her feet, in a depression of the earth, John Bannis- 
ter had gathered his splinters and kindled a little fire, jus f suffi- 
cient to enable them to behold one another, and perhaps make 
them more than ever feel the deep and gloomy density of the 
place. The adjuncts of the scene were all calculated to make 
them feel its sadness. No fitter spot could have been chosen for 
gloomy thoughts ; none which could more completely harmo- 
nize with the pallid presence of the dead. The head of the 
girl rested in the lap of the father. John Bannister sat behind 
the old man. A sense of delicacy made him reserved. He did 
not wish to obtrude at such a moment. 

Years had elapsed since the father had been persuaded that 
his child had been lost to him, irrevocably, by death ; and this 
conviction was embittered by the further belief that his own vio- 
biice had driven her to a desperate end. In that conviction, 
deep, and keen, and bitter, were the pangs of his soul; — pangs 
■vbich he c.'-ld only blunt by the endeavor, hitherto futile, 


THE FATHER AND HIS CIITLD. 


345 




rinding, and inflicting vengeance upon, her betrayer. Dark bad 
been his soul, darker its desires and designs. At length he finds 
her alive, whom he had fancied he had destroyed. He finds her 
living, only to see her die. His thoughts may be conjectured, 
not traced, nor described, as he watched the pale countenance, 
still beautiful, which lay before him in the immoveable ice of 
death. He watched her long in silence. Not a word was spoken 
by himself; and John Bannister felt too sincerely, on his own 
account, for idle and unnecessary remark. But the stifled na- 
ture at length broke its bonds. The heart of the father heaved 
with the accumulating emotions. Deep groans burst from his 
lips, and a sudden flood of relieving tears gushed from his eyes. 
Bannister felt easier as he perceived the change. > 

“ All’s for the best,” said he, with a plain homespun effort, at 
consolation. “It’s best that she’s gone, Jake Clarkson; and 
you see God spared her jest long enough to bring you to- 
gether that you might exchange pardon. You was a little 
rough and she was a little rash, and God, he knows, you’ve both 
had mighty bad roughing for i) ever since. Poor thing, she’s 
gone to heaven, that’s clear enough A o me. I’m not jub’ous 
about it. She’s been a sinner like the best, but if she wa’n’t 
sorry for it, from the bottom of her heart, then sinner never was 
sorry. Poor Mary, if she hadn’t looked a little too higlf, she 
wouldn’t ha’ fallen so low. She’d ha’ been an honest man’s 
wife ; but what’s the use to talk of that now. It only makes 
one’s eyes wate.’: tiie more.” 

“ It’s good, John. It sort o’ softens a man !” 

“ Not too much. A man oughtn’t to be too soft about the 
heart, in a world like this, so full of rascals that need the knock- 
ings of a hard and heavy hand. Yet, ef a man ought to feel 
soft about thi heart, jest now, that man’s me. It’s a sad truth, 
Jake, I was once jist on the point of axing you and Mary ! I 
was ; for I did love her, as I ha’n’t seer woman to love from 
that day to this ; and but for Edward Conway ! ” 

“That bloody villain! That thief— -that murderer! Ha! 
ha ! But I will have him yet, John Bannister ! I was a fool to 
be frightened away, jist when I had my hand at his throat, and 
nothing to stop me. There lie lay, still and ready for the knife! 

i » 


846 


TTIU SCOUT. 


Ho! John, jist tli ere ! I flunk 1 see liini now Stretched out. 
his eyes shut, his breast open, and nobody looking on ’ 

“ Stop, Jacob Clarkson, God was a-looking on all the time — 
and Mary Clarkson was a looking on ? — and what sent her thar 
jest at that moment ? Who but God ! And what did he send 
her thar for, but to stop you from doing a wrong thing? Look 
you, Jake Clarkson, yt know 1 don’t often stop to think or to 
feel when fighting’s going on. I’m as quick to kill as the quick- 
est dragoon in all Tarleton’s brigade. That is, I’m quick to kill 
when it’s the time for killing. But there’s a time for all things, 
and I ain’t quick to kill a man that’s a-slceping, and him too, so 
cut up already, that it’s a chance ef he ain’t got enough to bury 
him. I’m a-thinking, Jacob Clarkson, that God has jest given 
you a good warning, that you must do your killing in fair 
fight, and not by stealing to a man’s bedside when lie’s sleep- 
ing, and he pretty well chopped up already. I reckon you’ll 
be the man to kill Ned Conway yet, ef what lie’s got don’t 
finish him; and ef it does, you’ve only to thank God for tak- 
ing an ugly business off your hands. When I look upon 
Mary, thar, it puts me out of the idea of killing altogether. 
I’m sure I wish peace was everywhere. Lord save us from 
a tigie like this, when a poor child like that runs into the 
way of hard blows and bloody we’pons. It makes my heart 
sort o’ wither up within me only to think of it.” 

But Clarkson was not much impressed by the grave opin- 
ions of his companion. He had always respected the straight- 
forward character and manly judgment of the woodman; and 
there was something very plausible, to the superstitious mind, 
in the case presented at the outset of the woodman’s speech. 

“ Sure enough ! sure enough!” said the old man; “how 
could she come, jest at the moment I was going to kill him, 
if God didn’t mean that I shouldn’t do it jest then! But 
if he gets well again, John Bannister ” 

“ Kill him then — I’m el’ar for that! I'll kill him myself 
then ef nobody comes before me with a better right. 
You’ve got a sort of claim to the preference.” 

We need not pursue the conference. One question which 
went to the heart of John Bannister, and which he evaded, 


THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD. 


347 


was uttered by the father, as in passing his hands through the un- 
bound portions of her hair, he felt them clammy with her blood. 
The revelation of her physical injuries was new to him. 

“ Oh, God, John Bannister ! she bleeds ! Her head is hurt. 
Here ! jest here ! I didn’t mind the bandage before. She didn’t die 
a nateral death. The cruel villain has killed her. He’s got tired of 
her and killed her.” 

“ Oh, no ! no ! Jacob ! ” exclaimed the other, with an agitation 
of voice and manner wdiich betrayed his secret pangs. “No, I 
reckon not ! He’s not able to hurt anybody. I reckon — I’m sure — 
she got hurt by accident. I’ll answer for it, the man that struck 
Mary Clarkson would have sooner cut his right hand off than ha’ 
done such a thing. ’Twas accident ? I’m sure ’twas accident ! ” — 
and with these words the poor fellow went aside among the trees 
and wept like a child as he thought over the cruel haste of his own 
fierce spirit and too heavy hand. 

“ God forgive me for not speaking out the truth, which is a sort of 
lie-telling, after all. But how could I tell Jake Clarkson that ’twas 
the hand of John Bannister that shed the blood of his child ? It’s 
wof ul enough to feel it. ” 

To bury the dead from his sight became the last duty of the 
father. John Bannister was for carrying the body to the family 
vault of the Middletons and laying it there by dawn of day. But to 
this Clarkson instantly dissented. 

. “ No,” said he ; “ the Middletons are great people, and the Clark- 
sons are poor and mean. We never mixed with ’em in life, and 
there’s no reason we should mix in death.” 

“ But you don’t know Miss Flora, Jacob Clarkson.” 

“I don’t want to know her.” 

“She’s so good. She’d be glad, I’m sure, if we was to put her 
there. She’s been tending poor Mary as if she was her own 
sister.” 

“She has, eh? I thank her. I believe she’s good as you say, 
John. But, somebody might come after her, and shut me 
out of the vault when they please. They wouldn’t like me to go 
there to sec Mary when I wish, and wouldn’t let ’em put me be- 
side her. No ! no ! we’ll put her in the ground beside the 
river. I know a place for her already, and there’s room for me 


348 


THE SCOUT 


She was born in the Congaree, and she’ll sleep sweetly beside 
it. If you live^fter me, John, put me there with her. It’s a 
little smooth hill that always looks fresh with grass, as if God 
mailed upon the spot and a good angel ’lighted there in the 
night time. Go, John, and try and find a shovel in the fields 
somewhere. We’ve got no coffin, but we’ll wrap the child up 
in pine bark and moss, and she won’t feel it any colder. Go, 
and let me sit down with her by ourselves. It’s a long time, 
you know, since I talked with her, and then I talked cross and 
harsh. I’ll say nothing to vex her now. Go, get the shovel, 
if you can, and when you come back, we’ll take her, and I’ll 
show you where to dig. By that time we’ll have day to help 
us.’ 

Bannister departed withou a word, and left the father with 
his dead. We will not intrude upon his sorrows; but, when 
the whole history of the humble pair is considered, no sight 
could be more mournful than to behold the two — there, in 
that lonely and darksome maze of forest — at midnight — the 
flickering firelight cast upon the pallid features, almost trans- 
parent, of the fair, dead girl, while the father looked on, and 
talked, and wept, as if his tears could be seen, and his excuses 
and self-reproaches heard, by the poor child that had loved so 
warmly, and had been so hardly dealt with by all whom she 
had ever loved. Conway had ruined her peace and happiness; 
her father had driven her from her home ; and he, who had 
never wilfully meant, or said, her wrong, had inflicted the fatal 
blow which had deprived her of life — perhaps, the stroke of 
mercy and relief to a crushed and wounded spirit such as hers ! 
Truly, there was the hand of a fate in this — that fate that 
surely follows the sad lapses of the wilful heart ! Hers was 
rather weak than wilful ; but weakness is more commonly the 
cause of vice than wilfulness; and firmness is one of those 
moral securities, of inappreciable value, without which there is 
little virtue. 


AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE TWO SCOUTS. 


849 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE TWO SCOUTS. 

Meanwhile, the alarm had been given at Brier Park, and 
the whole house was in commotion. Watson Gray was the first 
to stumble up, and into consciousness, upon the flight of Mary 
Clarkson ; simply because he had been fortunate enough to feel 
the full force of the flying footsteps of her father. But several 
moments had elapsed after her departure, before the discovery 
of the fact was made, and the pursuit, which was then offered, 
appears to have taken a wrong direction. Certainly, they did 
not find the place of her concealment, nor the traces of her 
flight. 

Yet no pains were spared to do so. The circumstances were 
mysterious and exciting ; — to Flora Middleton, particularly so. 
She reproached herself, though, certainly without justice, for 
having left the poor girl in the custody of a drowsy servant ; 
and her self-chidings were by no means lessened when the 
minds of all at the barony appeared to settle down in the belief 
that, in her delirium, the poor girl had wandered off to the river 
banks and cast herself into its waters. Thus, a second time, 
was the innocent Congaree made to bear the reproach of parti- 
cipating in, and promoting, the destruction of the same unhappy 
life. 

In the chamber of the outlaw, the feelings, if less solemn and 
tender, were surely not less grave and serious. To Watson 
Gray, the mere death of the poor victim of his confederate, 
would have been of very small importance. Perhaps, indeed, 
he would have felt that it was a benefit — a large step gained 
toward the more perfect freedom of his principal. But there 
were some circumstances that compelled his apprehensions. 
Who had been in the chamber? Wlmt heavy feet were they 


850 


THE UCOUT. 


that trampled upon him? — and why was that strange and 
formidable knife resti ig beside the person of the outlaw ? 

That somebody, fi jin the apartment of Mary Clarkson, had 
been in that of Edward Conway, was soon apparent from the 
discovery of the little lamp which the former had carried, and 
which had fallen from her hands upon the couch of the lat- 
ter, in the moment when she saw her father’s face. This had 
been recognized by the servants, and the fact made known in 
the confusion of the search. But, though Gray felt certain 
that Mary had been in the room, he felt equally certain that 
there had been another also. It was possible that, in her de- 
lirium, the poor girl may have carried the knife as well as 
the light, and that she may have meditated the death of her 
betrayer: — all that was natural enough; but Gray felt sure 
that a heavier foot had trampled upon his neck and breast. 

Naturally of a suspicious temper, ills fears were confirmed, 
when, issuing from the house at the first alarm, he found his 
guards either withdrawn, or straggling toward their posts in al- 
most helpless inebriety. Their condition led him to recall the 
story of the surgeon. The description which the latter gave of 
the stranger who had penetrated to the breakfast-room — his 
garments of blue homespun, and the huge knife which he car- 
ried — tended, in considerable degree, to enlighten him. on the 
subject. He called the attention of the surgeon to the knife 
which had been found on the bed, and the latter, so far con- 
firmed the identity of it with the one which the supposed ghost 
was seen to carry, as to say that the one was equally large of 
size with the other ; but the former was incomparably more 
bright. He handled, with exceeding caution, the dark and 
dingy instrument, and re-delivered it, with fingers that seemed 
glad to he relieved from the unpleasant contact. 

Seeing the surprise of the scout at such seeming apprehen- 
sion, lie began a long discourse about contagion, infection, and 
die instinctive dread which he had of all cutaneous disorders ; 
to all of which Gray turned a deaf ear, and a wandering eye. 
The outlaw had been wakened by the unavoidable noise of the 
search, and had heard with some surprise and interest the cir- 
cumstances which were detailed to him by Gray 


AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE TWO SCOUTS. 


351 


“ How strange !” he exclaimed. “Do you know I had the 
sweetest sleep, in which I dreamed that Mary and myself were 
walking over the old rice-dam on the Santee, and I began to 
feel foi her just as I felt then, Avhen I first knew her, and she 
seemed twice as lovely, and twice as intelligent. How strange !” 

Gray had judiciously suppressed some of the circumstances 
connected with the events of the evening. He had concealed 
the knife entirely, and fbrbore stating to him, as well as to 
everybody else, everything which related to the supposed intru- 
sion of some stranger into the household. 

“ You have found her, Gray V’ said the outlaw, when the 
former returned from the search. 

“ No ! she is nowhere in the grounds.” 

“ Indeed ! could she have wandered to the river ?” 

“ That is what they all think.” 

“ But you ?” 

“ I know not what to think.” 

“ Why should you not think with them ?” 

“ I should, but she did not seem to me to have strength 
enough for that. The river is a mile off ; and she was evidently 
sinking fast when I saw her this evening.” 

“ Where, then, do you think her ]” 

“ Somewhere at hand. In some outhouse, or some hole oi 
corner — or, possibly, in some ditch, or close nest of bushes, 
where we can’t find her by night.” 

“ Good God ! and she has probably perished there — and 
thus!” 

Gray was silent, and the outlaw felt the returning pangs of 
that remorse which most probably would have remained unfelt 
except during the present period of his own inability. 

“ Poor, poor Mary. I would, Gray, that I could live ovei 
some things — some moments — of the past!” 

“ Do not let it afflict you so much. It can’t be helped, anc: 
these things are common enough.” 

Ay, common enough, indeed. Nothing more common than 
human misery. Nothing more common than the human guilt 
which causes it. And how coolly do we urge the commonness 
of both, by way of reconciling our souls to their recurrence ) 


352 


THE SCOUT. 


The philosophy of Watson Gray is, unhappily, of a very com 
mon description. 

“ Yes, yes. But such a catastrophe ! You have been look- 
ing for her V* 

“ Yes, for the last two hours.” 

“ But you will go again. You must, Gray.” 

“ With the daylight, I intend to do so.” 

“ That’s well. See to her, for God’s sake, Gray, and if she 
lives, let her last moments be easy. If all’s over, see her care- 
fully buried . . . It’s an ugly business. Would I were free of 
that ! I know not any blood that I would sooner wish to wash 
from my hands than hers.” 

“ That should be the wish of Clarence Conway, not yours,” 
said Gray, taking the literal sense of the outlaw’s expression. 

“ Ah, Gray, the blow, the mere blow, is a small matter. If I 
were free from the rest, I think nothing more would trouble me. 
The last drop ran the cup over — but who filled it to the brim 1 
who drugged it with misery 'l who made the poor wretch drink 
it, persuading her that it was sweet and pure ? Ah, G#ay, I 
fear I have been a bad fellow, and if there were another world 
hereafter — a world of punisnments and rewards!” 

“Your situation would be then changed, perhaps,” was the 
brutal sneer of Gray, “ and every privilege which you had in 
this life would then be given up to her. Perhaps you’d better 
sleep, captain ; sickness and want of sleep are not good helps to 
a reasonable way of thinking.” 

“ Gray, I suspect you’re a worse fellow than myself,” re- 
sponded the outlaw, with a feeble effort at a laugh. “ Ten to 
one, the women have more to complain of at your hands than 
they ever had at mine.” 

“ I don’t know. Perhaps. But I think not. The little I 
know of them makes me fancy that they’re a sort of plaything 
for grown people. As long as they amuse, well and good, and 
when they cease to do so, the sooner you get rid of them the 
better. When I was a young man, I thought differently. That 
is. I didn’t think at all. I had a faith in love. I had a similar 
faith in sweetmeats and sugar-plums. I liked girls and confec 
v’onery ; and — perhaps you never knew the fact before — I 


AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE TWO SCOUTS. .353 


married one young woman not very much unlike your Mary Clark- 
son.” 

“ The devil you did ! ” exclaimed the outlaw. 

“ The devil I did marry!” returned the other, gravely. “You 
speak the very words of truth and soberness. She proved worse than 
a devil to me. I trusted her, like a fool as I was, and she abused me. 
She ran off with my best horse, in comany with an Indian trader, 
whom I took into my cabin, fed.and physicked. He seized the first 
opportunity after he got well, to empty my house and relieve it of 
some of its troubles. But I didn’t see the matter in its true light. I 
wasn’t thankful. I gave chase, and got my horse back — that was 
everything, perhaps — just after they had left Augusta.” 

“ And you let the woman go, eh ? ” 

“ I left her with him, wlrere I found thein; .and they liked the 
spot so well, that I think any curious body that would seek, might 
find them there to this day. I have some reason to believe that she 
has been more quiet with him than she ever was with me. I don’t 
believe they ever quarrelled, and when she was my wife we were at 
it constantly.” 

“You’re a famous fellow, Gray!” exclaimed the outlaw, as he 
listened to a narrative of crime which was only remarkable, perhaps, 
from the coolness with which the chief actor related it. 

“No, captain, not famous. To be famous is about the last thing 
that I desire ; and I’m thinking you don’t much care about it. 
But you’d better sleep now. Take all the rest you can, and don’t 
mind anything you hear. You’ll want all your strength and sense, 
as soon as you can get it', if you wish to get what you aim at.” 

“No doubt. I’ll do as you counsel ; but see after the poor girl by 
daylight.” 

“ Yes, yes ! we’ll take all the care that’s needful,” was the re- 
sponse. 

To stifle the remorse of his superior, Gray had taken a way 
of his own, and one that was most successful. The -cold sneer 
is, of all other modes the most effectual in influencing the mind 
which does not receive its laws from well-grounded principles. 
ITow many good purposes have been parried by a sneer ! How 


THE SCOUT. 


854 

.na.iy clever minds have faltered in a noble aim by the sarcasm 
>.f the witling and the worldling ! How difficult is it for the 
young to withstand the curling lip, and the malignant half-«mile 
«f the audacious and the vain! Gray knew his man; and, in 
his narration, he had probably shown a degree of contumelious 
indifference to the character of woman, and the ties of love, 
which he did not altogether feel. It served his turn, and this 
was all that he desired of any agent »t any time. He turned 
from gazing on the outlaw, with such a smile as showed, how- 
ever he might be disposed to toil in bis behalf, he was still able 
to perceive, and to despise, what seemed to him to be the weak- 
nesses of the latter. 

Leaving the chamber, he descended to the area in front of 
the dwelling, and drew together, without noise, the file of sol- 
diers that had been left with him by Hawdon. These were 
now tolerably sobered ; and, having taken pains to see that 
their arms were in good condition, — for it may be said here 
that the smallest part of Gray’s purpose and care was to find 
the girl whom it was his avowed object to seek, — he led them 
forth into the adjoining thicket about an hour before the dawn 
of day. 

Of the reputation of Gray as a woodsman we have been 
already more than once informed, and the suspicions which he 
entertained were such as to make him address all his capacity 
to the contemplated search. His little squad were cautioned with 
respect to every movement ; and, divided into three parties of 
four men each, were sent forward to certain points, with the 
view to a corresponding advance of all, at-the same moment, 
upon such portions of the woods as seemed most likely to harbor 
an enemy. Spreading themselves so as to cover the greatest 
extent of surface, yet not be so remote from each other as to 
prevent co-operation, they went forward under the circums .ect 
conduct of their leader, with sure steps, and eyes that left no 
suspicious spot un examined on their route. 

The day was just begun. The sun, rising through the dim 
vapory haze that usually hangs about him at the beginning of 
nis pathway in early summer, shed a soft, faint beauty upon a 
gentle headland that jutted out upon the Coneraree. and c ,r n- 


AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE TWO SCOUTS. 355 

polled its currents to turn aside from the direct route, making a 
sweep around it, most like the curve of a crescent. Some 
thirty steps in the background was a clump of massive trees, 
the principal of which were oak and hickory. They grew 
around one eminent pine that stood alone of all its species, as it 
was alone in its height and majesty. At the foot of this tree, 
and under the cathedral shelter of the oaks, John Bannister was 
busy in throwing out the earth for the spot chosen by Clarkson 
for his daughter’s grave. The father sat at a little distance in 
the background, his child’s head lying in his lap. The labors 
of Bannister had been severe, and he would not suffer the old 
man to assist him. The earth was rigid, and the innumerable 
roots of the contiguous trees traversed, in every direction, the 
spot chosen for the grave. Fortunately the stout woodsman 
had secured an axe as well as a shovel, and the vigor of his 
arm “at length succeeded in the necessary excavation. 

To remedy, as far as he might, the want of a coffin, the worthy 
fellow had stripped the rails from the neighboring fences, and he 
now proceeded to line, with them, the bottom and sides of the 
grave. These were in turn lined with pine bark and green moss, 
and the couch of death was spread with as much care and ten- 
derness, under the cheerless circumstances, as if wealth had 
brought its best offerings, and art had yielded its most ingenious 
toils in compliance with the requisitions of worldly vanity. 

Bannister was yet in the grave, making these dispositions, 
when Watson Gray, with his soldiers, advanced upon the party. 
To old Clarkson the task had been assigned of keeping watch. 
It. was physically impossible that Bannister should do so while 
deep buried and toiling in the earth. The old man was too 
much absorbed in contemplating the pale features of his child, 
and too full of the strife within his heart, to heed the dangers 
from without ; and so cautious had been the approach of Gray 
and nis party, that they were upon the sufferer before he could 
rise from his feet or make the slightest effort to relieve himself 
from his burthen. 

It was fortunate for Bannister that, being in the grave and 
stuping at the time, he was below the surface of the earth, and 
remained unseen at the time when Clarkson was taken. But- 


856 


THE SCOUT. 


hearing strange voices, lie immediately conjectured the approach 
of enemies, and cautiously peering above the grave, beheld at a 
glance the danger which threatened him. He saw Watson Gray, 
conspicuous, and standing directly above the person of Clarkson, 
whose daughter’s head still lay in his lap. One of his hands 
was pressed upon her bosom, as if he felt some apprehension 
that she would be taken from him. On either hand of Gray he 
beheld a group of soldiers, and a glance still further, to the right 
and left, showed that they were so placed as to present them- 
selves on every side between him and the forest. His flight 
seemed entirely cut off. But the coolness and courage of the 
woodman did not leave him in the emergency. He had already 
resolved upon his course, and rising rapidly to the surface, he 
became visible to his enemies. The voice of Watson Gray was 
heard at the same instant, calling to him to surrender. 

“Good quarter, Supple Jack ! — be quiet and take it. You 
can’t get off. You’re surrounded.” 

The tone of exultation in which the rival scout addressed him, 
made it a point of honor with Bannister to reject his offer, even 
if he had no reason to suppose that the assurance of safety 
meant nothing. He well knew, in those days, what the value 
of such an assurance was ; for Tarleton, Rawdon, and Corn- 
wallis, had long since shown themselves singularly reckless of 
all pledges made to “ the poor bodies who were out” in the re 
hellion of ’7G. 

“ Make terms when you’ve got me, Watson Gray,” was the 
scornful answer of the scout. “ The only quarters I ax for is my 
own, and I’ll save them when I’ve got ’em.” 

“ If you run, I shoot !” cried Gray threateningly. “ Look ; my 
men are all around you.” 

“ I reckon then I’ll find ’em in the bottom of the Congaree ;” 
A’as the fearless answer, as the scout leaped for the river bank 
with the speed of an antelope. 

“Shoot!” cried Gray — “Shoot him as he runs! Fire' 
Fire !” 

The volleys rang on every side, but the fugitive remained 
erect. He had reached the river bank. He seemed unhurt 
His enemies pressed forward in pursuit ; and the sceut clapping 


AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE TWO SCOUTS. 357 

his open palms together above his head, plunged boldly into the 
stream, and disappeared from sight. 

Bannister could swim like an otter, and with head under wa- 
ter almost as long. But once he rose to breathe, and his ene- 
mies, who waited for his re-appearance with muskets cocked; 
now threw away their lire in the haste with which they strove 
to take advantage of his rising. When he next became visible, 
he was on the opposite shore, and bade them defiance. A bit- 
ter laugh answered to their shout as he turned away slowly and 
reluctantly, and disappeared in the distant thickets. 

Gray had lost his prey a second time, and he turned, with no 
good humor, to the prisoner with whom he had been more suc- 
cessful. 

“ Who are you — what’s your name ?” 

Jacob Clarkson !” 

‘ Ha ! you are then the father of this girl V 9 

“ Yes !” was the sad reply of the old man, as his head sank 
upon his breast. 

“ Do you know this knife ?” demanded Gray, showing the 
knife which had been found at the bedside of Morton. 

“ It is mine.” 

“ Where did you lose, or leave it V* 

“ I know not. I dropped it somewhere last night.” 

“Where — at the house of Mrs. Middleton?” 

“ It may be — I was there !” 

u You were in the chamber of Captain Morton !” 

“ Not that I know on,” was the reply. 

“ Beware ! You cannot deceive me. You stood beside hrs 
bed. You -went there to murder him. Confess the truth : — did 
you not ?” 

“ No !” cried the old man, starting to his feet. “ I did go there 
to murder a man, but God forbid it. I couldn’t, though he was 
laying there before me. She come between. She made me 
stop, or I’d lia’ killed him in another moment. But it was Ed- 
ward Conway that I would have killed. I know nothing about 
Captain Morton.” 

“ Ha ! I see it. Hither, Sergeant Bozman. Tie this fellow’s 
hands behind him.” 


358 


THE SCOUT. 


“Hands off!” cried the old man, with a sudden show of figh. 
— “ Hands off, I tell you ! I must first put her in the ground.” 

" Give yourself no trouble about that. We’ll see it done,” 
said Gray. 

“ I must see it too,” said the old man resolutely. 

The resolution he expressed would have been idle enough had 
Gray been disposed to enforce his wishes ; but a few moments’ 
reflection induced him, as no evil consequence could possibly en- 
sue from the indulgence, to yield in this respect to the prisoner. 

“The old rascal!” he exclaimed — “let him stay. It’s per- 
haps only natural that he should wish to see it ; and as they have 
got the grave ready, put her in at once.” 

“ Stay !” said the father, as they were about to lift the body. 
“ Stay ! — oi ly for a minute !” and while the soldiers, more in- 
dulgent perhaps than their leader, gave back at his solicitation, 
the father sank to the ground beside her, and the tones of his 
muttered farewell, mingled with his prayer — though the words 
were undistinguishable — were yet audible to the bystanders. 

“ Now, I’m ready,” said he, rising to his feet. “ Lay her 
down, and you may tie me as soon after as you please.” 

The burial was shortly over. No other prayer was said. 
Old Clarkson watched the sullen ceremonial to its completion, 
and was finally, without struggle or sign of discontent, borne 
away a prisoner by his inflexible captor. 


GLIMPSES OP COMING EVENTS. 


Bhu 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

GLIMrSES OF COMING EVENTS 

The outlaw did not hear of Mary Clarkson’s death without 
some emotion ; but the duration of his remorse was short. He 
soon shook himself free from its annoyances, and in a week 
more it was forgotten. Of the arrest of old Clarkson, his own 
previous danger from the hands of the latter, and several other 
details, connected with his proceedings, Watson Gray did r ot 
suffer his principal to know anything. His main object was to 
get his patient up and on his legs again, foreseeing that a time 
was approaching, when a sick bed could be no security for either 
of them in a region to he so shortly winnowed with the sword of 
an enemy. His scouts occasionally arrived, bringing him re- 
ports of the condition of the country : of the prospects of Raw- 
don’s army, and of the several smaller bodies under Greene, 
Sumter, Marion, and Pickens. 

These leports counselled him to make all speed. He did not 
press the outlaw with the intelligence which he thus obtained, 
for fear that their tendency might be to increase his anxiety, and 
discourage rather than promote his cure. To this one object, 
his own anxious efforts were given, without stint or interruption, 
and every precaution was taken, and every measure adopted by 
which the recovery of bis patient might be effected. No nurse 
could have been more devoted, no physician more circumspect, 
no guardian more watchful. The late attempts of Clarkson had 
given him a mean opinion of the regulars who had been left to 
take care of the barony ; and to watch them was the most irk- 
some, yet necessary duty, which he had undertaken. But he 
went to his tasks cheerfully, and, with this spirit, a strong man 
may almost achieve anything. 

The tidings which were sometimes permitted to reach the ears 
of Flora Middleton, were of no inconsiderable interest to that 


THE SCOUT. 


m 


maiden She heard frequently of Clarence Conway, and always 
favorably. Now he was harassing the tories on the upper Sa- 
luda, and now driving them before him into the meshes of Pick 
ens among the Unacaya mountains. The last tidings in respect 
to him which reached her ears, were also made known to Wat- 
son Gray by one of his runners ; and were of more particular 
importance to b< ;th of them than they were then fully aware of 
It was reported that a severe fight had taken place between 
Conway’s Blues and the Black Riders. The latter were be- 
guiled into an ambush which Conway had devised, after the or- 
dinary Indian fashion, in the form of a triangle, in which twen- 
ty-three of the Black Riders were sabred, and the rest dispersed. 
Gray did not greatly regret this disaster. He was now anxious 
to be free of the connection, and, perhaps, he conceived this 
mode of getting rid of them, to be quite as eligible, and, cer- 
tainly, as effectual as any other. 

“ That fellow, Stockton, with his sly second, Darcy, are the 
only chaps that might trouble us. They suspect us ; they know 
something, perhaps; and if Conway has only cut them up, 
along with the twenty-three, we shall count him as good an al- 
ly as the best.” 

Such was his only reflection as he communicated this news to 
the outlaw, his principal. 

“ Ay,” replied the latter, “ but why was there no lucky 1 allot 
to reward the conqueror. That hopeful brother of mine seems 
to own a charmed life, indeed. I know that he goes into the 
thick of it always, yet lie seldom gets even his whi.-kors singed. 
The devil takes care of him surely. He has proper friends in 
that quarter.” 

“We needn’t care for him, captain, so long as Ri.wdon lies 
between us. If you were only up now, and able, we could whip 
off the lady, and every hair of a negro, and take shipping be- 
fore they could say Jack Robinson, or guess what we are dri- 
ving at.” 

“ Ay, if I were only up !” groaned the outlaw writhing upon 
his couch. “ But that ‘ if ’ is the all and everything.” 

“ But you are better. You are much stronger. I think this 
last week has done winders for you ; and. but for the weakness. 


GLIMpfTSS OP COMING EVENTS. 361 

and the gashes in your face — ” The speaker paused without fin 
isliing tlie sentence. 

“Very comely, no doubt: they will strike a lady favorably, 
eh? Do you not think they improve my looks wonderfully?” 

There was something of bitterness in the affected indifference 
with which the outlaw made this comment. The other made no 
reply, and did not appear to heed the tone of complaint. 

“ Give me the glass, Gray,” continued the outlaw. 

lie was obeyed ; the mirror was put into his hands, and he 
subjected his visage to a lone* scrutiny. 

“ Nothing so shocking, after all. My mouth is something 
enlarged, but that will improve my musical ability. I shall be 
better able to sing ‘Hail Britannia,’ in his majesty’s island of 
Jamaica, or the ‘Still vex’d Bermoothes,’ to one or other of 
vbich places we must make cur way. Besides, for the look of 
the tiling, what need ± care ? I shall be no longer in the mar- 
ket : ai d my wife is in duty bound to think me comely. Eh, 
what say you, Gray ?” 

“ Yes, surely ; and Miss Middleton don’t seem to be one to 
care much about a body’s looks.” 

'* Don’t you believe it, Gray. She’s a woman like the rest ; 
and they go by looks. Smooth flowing locks, big, bushy whis- 
kers, and a bold, death-defying face will do much among a regi- 
ment of women. I’ve known many a sensible woman — sensible 
I mean for the sex — seek a fool simply because he was an ass 
so monstrous as to be unapproachable by any other, and was, 
therefore, the fashion. The ugliness is by no means an objec- 
tion, provided it be of a terrible sort. I don’t know but that 
success at first is as likely to attend the hideous as the hand- 
some ; that is, if it be coupled with a good wit aid a rare 
audacity.” 

“ The notion is encouraging, certainly ; and I recko r there's 
something in it — though I never thought of it before. ' 

‘ There is ! It is a truth foynded upo n a tiist experience of 
the woman heart. Beauty and the Beast : s a frequent alliance.” 

“ I reckon that was the secret of the snake getting the better 
of Mother Eve in the garden.” 

“Yes : the snake was as bold and subtle as he was ugly. Tha 

if 


362 


THE SCOUT. 


boldness and subtleness, reconciled the woman to tlie beast ; 
once reconciled, to behold without loathing, she soon discovers: 
a beauty in his very ugliness. If* not handsome, therefore, b , 
hideous; if* you wish to succeed with woman : — the more hide 
ous (the wit and audacity not being wanting) the more likely tr 
be successful. The game were quite sure if, to the wit and 
boldness, you could add some social distinctions — wealth or no- 
bility for example. A title, itself, is a thing of very great beauty. 
Now were I a lord or baronet — a count or marquis — you might 
slash my cheeks with half a score more of such gashes as these, 
and they would, in no degree, affect my fortune with the fail, 
In that is my hope. I must buy a title as soon as I have my 
prize, and then all objections will disappear. Still, I could have 
wished that that d — d spiteful brothei .\f mine had subjected roe 
to no such necessity. He might have slashed hip or thigh, and 
gratified himself quite as much in those quarters.'’ 

“ Let us carry out our project, and you have yovu revenge !" 

“Ay, and there’s consolation in that for worse hurts than 
these. But hear you nothing yet from below? What from 
Pete ? If the boats fail us at the proper lime, we shall bo in 
an ugly fix.” 

“They will not fail us. Everything now depends on you. If 
you can stir when the time comes ” 

“ Stir — I can stir now. I mean to try my limbs before the 
week’s out, for, as the fair Flora forbears to come and see me, 
I shall certainly make an effort to go and see her. Has the 
poison touched, think you? Does she feel it — does she be- 
lieve it ?” 

The cv.tlaw referred to the slander which Gray had insinuated 
against Clrrence Conway. 

“No doubt. She’s so proud that there’s no telling where it 
hurts her. and she’ll never tell herself; but I know from the 
flashing d her eye, after I said what I did about Colonel Con 
way and Mary Clarkcon, that she believed and felt it. Besides 
captain, I must tell yc a, that she’s asked after you more kindly 
aod more frequently of latn. She always asks,” 

“ Ha ! that’s a good sign ; well ?” 

“ I said you were more unhappy than sick. That you’d got 


GLIMPSES OF COMING EVENTS. 


363 


jvei the body hurts, I had no doubt. But then, I told her what 
an awful thing to light with one’s brother, and how much you 
felt that!” 

“ Ha ! Well, and then ]” 

“ She sighed, but said nothing more, and soon after went out 
of the room.” 

“ Good seed, well planted. I shall cultivate the plant care- 
fully. I fancy I can manage that.” 

“ Pslio ! — Here’s the surgeon,” said Gray, interrupting him 
with a whisper, as Mr. Hillhouse appeared at the entrance. 

The surgeon had forgotten, or forgiven, the slight to which 
his patient had previously subjected him. He was not a person 
to remember any circumstance which might be likely to dispar- 
age him in his own esteem. Besides, his head was now running 
upon a project which made him disposed to smile upon all man- 
kind. We will allow him to explain his own fancies. 

“ Mr. Conway, good morning. I trust you feel better. Nay, 
1 see you do. Your eyes show it, and your color is warming ; — 
a sign that your blood is beginning to circulate equally through 
your system. Suffer me to examine your pulse.” 

“ I feel better, sir, stronger. I trust to get fairly out of my 
lair in a week. I shall make a desperate attempt to do so.” 

“ You are better, sir ; but do nothing rashly. A week may 
produce great results. There are but seven days in a week, Mr 
Conway — but a poor seven days — yet how many events — 
how many fates — how many deeds of good and evil, lie in that 
space of time. Ah ! I have reason to say this from the bottom 
of my heart. A week here, sir, at this barony, has changed the 
whole aspect of my life.” A sigh followed this speech. 

“ Indeed ! And how so, pray !” 

“ You see in me, Mr. Conway, a man who has lived a great 
deal in a short space of time. In the language of the ancient 
poet — Ovid, it is — my life is to be told by events, and not by 
lingering years. It is a book crowded with events. I have 
passed through all the vicissitudes of a long life in Europe, 
India, and America. I have ate and drank, marched and fought 
— played the man of pleasure and the man of business — stood 
in my friend’s grave, and often at the edge of my own ; — saved 


3G4 


THE SCOUT. 


life, taken life ; and practised, suffered and enjoyed all things, and 
thoughts and performances, which are usually only to be known to 
various men in various situations. But, sir, one humbling accident 
— the trying event which usually occurs to every other man at an 
early period of his life, has hitherto, by the special favor of a benign 
providence, been withheld from mine ! ” 

“Ah, sir, and what may that be ? ” demanded the outlaw. 

“ I have never loved, sir — till now. Never known the pang and 
the prostration — the hope and the fear — the doubt and the desire — 
till the fates cast me upon the banks of the Congaree ! Melancholy 
conviction ! that he who has survived the charms of Europe and 
India— who has passed through the temptations of the noble and the 
beautiful, the wealthy and the vain, of those beguiling regions — 
should here be overtaken and overcome by the enemy in the wild 
w r oods of America.” 

“ Indeed ! It is indeed a most dreadful catastrophe ! Gray, hand 
the doctor a chair, a glass of water, and if you have any Jamaica — ” 

“ No, no ! — I thank ybu, no ! — I will take the chair only.” 

“ And pray, sir,” said the outlaw with a mock interest in the sub- 
ject — “ when did you suffer from the first attack, and who do you 
suspect of bewitching you ? ” 

“ Suspect # of bewitching me ! — a good phrase that ! — I like it. 
My suspicions, sir, as well as yours, should naturally be strong that 
I am the victim of a sort of witchcraft ; for, how else should a man 
fall so suddenly and strangely in a strange land, who has stood un- 
shaken by such affections, through such a life as mine ? ” 

“Very true! a very natural reflection, sir. But you have not said 
who you suspect of this cruel business.” 

“ Ah, sir, who but the fair damsel of this very house. What wo- 
man is there like unto her in all the land ? ” 

“Ha! Is it possible ! ” 

“Possible! — why not possible?” demanded the surgeon. “Is 
she not young, and fair, and rich in goods aud chattels, and who so 
likely to practice sorcery ? ” 

“True, true! — but doctor, are you aware that you are not 


GLIMPSES OF COMING EVENTS. 


365 


the only victim? She has practiced with perhaps greater success on 
others.” 

“ Indeed ! Tell me, I pray you sir ! ” 

“Nay, I can only speak from hearsay. My friend here, Mr. 
Gray, can tell you more on the subject. The story goes — but 
I must refer } r ou to him. Gray, take a ramble with Mr. Hill- 
house, and see if you cannot match his witchcraft case with one or 
more, much worse, if possible, than his own, and springing from the 
same fruitful source of mischief. Let him see that he does not lack 
for sympathy.” 

Gray took the hint, and the surgeon readily accepted the in- 
vitation to a walk, in w'hich the former continued to give to his 
companion a very succinct account of the duel between the 
brothers, and the engagement supposed to be existing between 
Clarence and Flora. The artful confederate of the outlaw, 
taking it for granted that a person so supremely vain and silly 
as the surgeon, might be made to believe anything, and could 
scarcely keep secret what he heard, arranged his materials 
in such a way as to make it appear that the fight between the 
brothers arose in consequence of the cruel treatment which 
Mary Clarkson had received at the hands of the younger. A 
purely magnanimous motive led the elder brother into the dif- 
ficulty. 

“Now, Mr. Conway, your patient, as soon as he heard that 
Colonel Conway was courting Miss Middleton, pursued him, only 
to reproach him for his breach of promise to the poor creature. 
The proud stomach of Colonel Conway couldn’t bear that, and 
he drew upon Mr. Conway and wounded him in the face before 
he could put himself in preparation. The poor girl who had 
been following the colonel, everywhere, in boy’s clothes, ran be- 
tween them, and got her death, there’s no telling by whose 
hands, and so the case stands, at present. Mr. Conway, your 
patient, of course wouldn’t speak against his brother ; and I s’pose, 

the marriage will go on between him and Miss Flora, unless 

she may have changed her mind since you’ve come to the 
barony. ” 

“Ah! ha!” said the surgeon. “ You’ve enlightened me very 
much, Mr. Watson Gray. I’m greatly your debtor. You are a 


360 


THE SCOUT. 


man of sense. I thank you sir — I thank you very much. Sup- 
pose we return to the mansion. I am anxious to change these 
garments. ” 

“ Change them, sir! What, your dress? 

The blunt mind of Gray couldn’t perceive the association of ideas 
taking place in the brain of his companion. 

‘ Yes, I wish to put on a dove-colored suit. The dress which I 
now wear, does not suit the day, the circumstances, nor my present 
feelings.” 

“What, sir ? ” demanded Gray in feigned astonishment. “ Have 
you got a change for every day in the week ? I have but one change 

in all. 

The surgeon turned upon the speaker with a look which plainly 
said : — 

“Impertinent fellow, to venture upon such an offensive com- 
parison.” 

He contented himself, however, with remarking : — 

“ The wants of men, my good friend, differ according to their 
moral natures, the moods, and changes of mind by which they 
are governed. I have no doubt that two suits will be ample 
enough for your purposes ; but for me, I have always striven to 
make my costume correspond with the particular feeling which 
affects me. My feelings are classed under different heads and 
orders, which have their subdivisions in turn, according to the 
degree, quality and strength of my several sensibilities. Of the 
first orders there are two — pleasure and pain ; under these 
heads come cheerfulness and sadness ; these in turn have their 
degrees and qualities — under the first is hope, under the second, 
fear — then there are boubts and desires which follow these; 
and after all, I have omitted many still nicer divisions which I doubt 
if you could well appreciate. I have not spoken of love and hate — 
nor indeed of any of the more positive and emphatic passions — but 
for all of which I have been long provided with a suitable color and 
costume.” 

“You don’t mean to say that you’ve got a change suitable 
for every one of these?” said the woodman with some astonish- 
ment. 

“You inquire, Mr. Gray, with the tone of one who will not 


GLIMPSES OF COMING EVENTS. 


867 


be likely to believe any assurance. Oblige me by witnessing 
for yourself. I had arranged to examine my wardrobe this 
very noon, as a sort of mental occupation, with which I relieve 
the tedium of repose, and bad weather, and unpleasant anticipa- 
tions. Do me the favor to assist me in this examination. We 
may probably gather from it some useful lessons, and I will en- 
deavor to explain, what is at present very imperfectly under- 
stood, the singular propriety of my principles. You shall be 
able, when you have heard my explanation, to know, from the 
dress I wear, what particular condition I am in that day. A 
man’s costume, if properly classed, is a sort of pulse for his tem- 
per. This morning, w T hen I rose, under the influence of one set 
of moods, I put on a meditation costume. I am in a brown 
dress you see. That shows that, when I put it on, I was in 
what is vulgarly called a ‘ brown study.’ Circumstances, the 
ground of which you can not, perhaps, conjecture, prompt me 
to go back and change it for one of a dove color. You may 
perhaps comprehend the meaning of this hereafter. 

“ I reckon it’s something about love, that dove color,” said 
Gray bluntly. “ Dove and love always go together.” 

“ Ah, you are quick. You are naturally an intelligent person, 
I suspect. You will comprehend sooner than I expected. But 
come and see — come and see.” 

“ This fool will do us excellent service,” said the outlaw, when, 
at his return, Watson Gray recounted the events of the interview. 

“ He will go to Flora Middleton in his dove-colored small- 
clothes, and find some way of letting her know what a scamp 
Clarence Conway is, and what a martyr I have been to the 
cause of innocence betrayed. You did not let him guess that I 
had a hankering after Flora myself?” 

“ Surely not : I just let him know enough of the truth to lie 
about. A fool can do an immense deal of mischief Avith the tail- 
end of a truth.” 

“Which is ahvays slippery,” said the outlaw. “Well mis- 
chief can do us no harm. In this case, it is our good — it works 
for us. Let him kill Clarence Conway off in her estfeem, and 
Jie> certainly, is not the thing to be afraid of. But did you 
really count Ins breeches ?” 


368 


THE SCOUT. 


“ No, God help me ! I shook myself free from him as soor 
as I could. I’d as soon pry among the petticoats of my grand- 
mothers. But he had an enormous quantity. I reckon he’s used 
up all his pay, ever since he began, in this sort of childishness/’ 

The conjectures of the outlaw, as respects the course of the 
exquisite, were soon realised. But a few days had elapsed 
when he availed himself of an opportunity to pursue Flora as 
he saw her taking her way through the grounds in the direction 
of the river. His toilet, however, was not completed when lie 
caught a glimpse of her person through the window ; and the 
task of completing it — always one of considerable pains and 
duration — enabled her to get considerably the start of him, 
She had passed the sentinels, who were sauntering at their sta- 
tions, and had reached the lonely vault where her ancestors 
reposed. The solemn shadows of the wood by which it was 
encircled pleased her fancy ; and the united murmurs of the 
pine-tops and the waters of the Congaree, as they hurried on at 
a little distance below, beguiled her thoughts into the sweet 
abodes of youthful meditation. 

Flora Middleton was, as we have endeavored to show, a 
maiden of deeper character and firmer qualities than usually 
distinguish her age ; perhaps, indeed, these characteristics are 
not often possessed in equal degree among her sex. Firmness 
of character usually implies a large share of cheerfulness and 
elasticity ; and these also were attributes of her mind. Her 
life, so far, had been free from much trial. She had seldom 
been doomed to suffering. Now, for almost the first time, the , 
shadows of the heart gathered around her, making her feet to 
falter, and bringing the tears into her eyes. The supposed 
infidelity of Clarence Conway had touched her deeply — more 
deeply than even she had at first apprehended. When she 
first heard the accusation against him, and saw the wretched 
condition of the poor girl whom she believed to be destroyed by 
his profligacy, she said, in the fervor of virtuous indignation 
which prevailed in her mind: — 

“ I will shake him off for ever, and forget that I ever knew 

him !” 

But the resolution was more easily taken than kept. Each 


GLIMPSES OF COMING EVENTS. 


369 


\ subsequent hour had increased the difficulties of such a resolu- 
tion ; and, iu the seeming deafh of her hopes alone, she discov- 
ered how entirely her heart had found its life in their preserva- 
tion. When she believed the object of her attachment to be 
'worthless — then, and not tin then, did she feel how miserable 
us loss would make hex heart. Perhaps, but for the very firm- 
ness of character of which we have spoken, she would neither 
have made nor maintained such a resolution. How many are 
ffie dependent hearts among her sex, who doubt, mistrust, fear, 
falter and yet, accept! — who dare not reject the unworthy, 
because they can not forbear to love. 

l iora Middleton felt the pain of the sacrifice the more deeply 
in consequence of the jonviction, which her principles forced 
upon her, that it must yet be made. Could she have faltered 
with her pride and her manciples, she would net name found the 
pain so keen. But cLb >/«,£ lesclute. 

“No! no!” she murmured to herself, as all the arguments 
of love were arrayed before her by the affection? — “No! no! 
though it kill me to say the words, yet I will say them. 
Clarence Conway, we are sundered — separated for ever! I 
might have borne much, and witnessed much, and feared much, 
but not this. This crime is too mu eh for the most devoted love 
to hear.” 

She was suddenly startled from her meditations by a slight 
whistle at a little distance. This was followed by a voice. 

“Hist!” was the gentle summons that demanded her atten- 
tion from tlie thicket on the river-banks, as she turned in the 
direction of the grounds. Her first feminine instinct prompted 
her to fly ; hut the masculine resolution of her mind emboldened 
her, and she advanced toward the spot whence the summons 
proceeded. As she approached, a head, and then the shoulders 
of a man, were elevated to the surface, as if from the bed of the 
river; and a closer approximation proved the stranger to be an 
old acquaintance. 

“John Bannister!” exclaimed the maiden. 

“Yes, Miss Flora, the very man — what’s left of him.” 

“ * What’s left of him/ John Bannister 1 Why, what’s the 
matter ? are you hurt ?” 


THE SCOUT. 


a/o 

“No, no, Miss Flora — I say ‘what’s left of me," only be 
cause, you see, I don’t feel as ef I am altogether a parfect r:au 
when I have to dodge and shirk about, not able to rind cuy 
friends, and always in a sort of scatteration of limbs, for lea, 
that my enemies will find me. I am pretty well to do in hea 1 ti 
at this present, thanks be to God for all his marcies ; though, 
when you saw me last, I reckon you thought I was in a bad 
fix. But I give ’em the slip handsomely, and used their own 
legs in coming off.” 

“ How was it, Bannister ? . . . But come up /o< x. oet be 
standing rather uncomfortably there.” 

“ Pretty well-off, thank ye. There’s a dug-out under me 
and as I’ve only a word cr t,vo tc say ; 7 needn’t git up any 
higher to say it.” 

“Well, as you please; but how did you make your escape 
fr< ra the British, John?” 

“ Ah., that’s a long story, Miss Flora, and there’s no needees- 
sity for telling it, any how. Some other time, when the war’s 
over, and every mar can be brave a bit, without danger, I’ll let 
you know the saxecmstancse. But jest now, what I come for 
is to give you warning. Ycu’ts got a sly rascal as ever lived in 
your house, at this present, that never yet was in any one place 
so long without derrg mischief — one Watson Gray ” 

“ Why, he’s attending on Mr. Conway.” 

“It’s a pair on ’em, I tell you. That Watson Gray’s after 
mischief, and it’s a mischief that has you in it. But don’t be 
scared. I want to let you know that there’s one friend always 
at your sarvice, and nigh enough to have a hand in any business 
that consarns his friends. If anything happens, do you see, jest 
you hang a slip of white stuff — any old rag of a dress or hand- 
kerchief — on this bluff here, jest where you see me standing, 
and I’ll see it before you’ve gone fur, or I’m no scout fit for the 
Congaree. Ef there’s danger to you, there’s help too ; and, so 
far as the help of a good rifle and a strong arm can go — and 
I may say, Miss Flora, without familiarity, a good friend — 
lang my buttons ef you sha’n’t have it.” 

“ But, John, from what quarter is this danger to come ? What 
is it ? liow will it come ?” 


GLIMPSES OF COMING FA ENTS- 


371 


y “All, that’s the danger. Yon might k.. well n in what s-b^pe 
patan will come next. But the d — f s in your house, that’s 
enough. Be careful, when he flies, he ion’t carry off much more 
than he brought in. Maybe you’ll see a man, to-morrow or the 
next day, coming to W atson Gray’s. He’s about my Left, but jest 
with one half the number of arms. He’s a stout chap, poor fel- 
low, to be cut short in that way. Now, you can trust him. Ef 
he says to you * Come,’ do you come. Ef he says ‘ Stay,’ then 
do you stay ; for he’s honest, and the <gh he seems to be work- 
ing for Watsa.i Gray, he’s working handsomely a.'dn him. You 
can true; him. Ho's our man. I oivartea him to a good 
onderstnnding of the truth of liberty ; tut I had to make every 
turn of it clear to him before he’d believe. We had two good 
argyments to try the case ; tut I throw’d him the last time, and 
he’s been sensible to the truth ever sence. *Twas him that 
helped me out of the British clutches t’other day. But we 
won’t talk of that. Only you jest believe him, and hang out 
the white flag, here under the bluff, ef ever you need a friend’s 
sarvice.” 

“ You confound and confuse me only, John Bannister, by what 
you have said. I believe that you mean me well, and that you 
think there is some danger ; and I am willing to trust you. But 
I don’t like this half-confidence. Speak out plainly. What am 
I to fear ? I am a woman, it’s true, but I am not a coward. I 
think I can hear the very worst, and think about it with toler- 
able courage afterward ; nay, assist somewhat, perhaps, in your 
deliberations.” 

“ Lord love you, Miss Flora, ef I was to tell you the little, 
small, sneaking signs, that makes a scout know when lie’s on 
trail of an inimy, you’d mout-be only laugh. You wouldn’t be- 
lieve, and you couldn’t onderstand. No, no ! jest you keep 
quiet and watch for the smoke. As soon as you see the smoke, 
you’ll know there’s a fire onder it ; which is as much as to say, 
jest when you see anything onderliand going on — scouts run- 
ning this way, and scouts running that, and Watson Gray at the 
bottom of all and busy — then you may know brimstone’s going 
to burn, and maybe gunpowder. Keep a sharp eye on that 
game Watson Gray. Suspicion him afore all. He’s a cunning 


372 


ThE SCOUT. 


parpen t tli^t knows how to Iiicle under a green bu:’h, and look 
(ike the yallow flow'r that L ‘lungs to it ” 

“You said something about Mr. Conway — Mr. Edward Con- 
way, John V r 

He’s another sarpeut. But ” 

The head of the scout sank below the bank. He had disap- 
peared, as it were, in the bottom of the river; and while Flora 
Middleton trembled from apprehension, lest he had sunk into 
the stream, she was relieved by the accents of a voice at some 
little distance behind her, as of one approaching Tom the house 
She turned to encounter Mr. Surgeon Hillhouse, now, in his 
dove-colored small-clothes. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE RETURN OF THE BLACK RIDERS. 

The reader is already familiar with the business of the sur- 
geon, and has probably conjectured the sort of answer which he 
received from the heiress of Middleton Barony. His dove- 
colored garments, and rose-color address, availed him little; 
though, it may be added, such was the fortunate self-complai- 
sance of the suitor, that, when he retired from the field, he was 
still in considerable doubt of the nature of the answer which he 
had received. It was still a question in his mind whether he 
had been refused- or not. 

According to his usual modes of thinking, his doubts were 
reasonable enough. He had taken more than ordinary pains to 
perfect himself in the form of application which he intended to 
use. His fine sayings had been conned with great circumspec- 
tion, and got by rote with the persevering diligence of a school- 
boy or a parrot. He had prepared himself to say a hundred 
handsome phrases. The colors of the rainbow, and the various 
odors of the flowers, had been made to mingle in a delicate 
adaptation to his particular parts of speech, in all the best graces 


THE RETURN OP THE BLACK RIDERS. 


378 


of that Euphuism of which, among nis own clique, lie had been 
Wially recognised as the' perfect master. He knew that Lady 
Bello would have turned up her eyes to heaven, in new-born 
ecstasies, had he but spoken nis pretty speeches to her ; and 
those of Lady Grace would have been filled with tears of a simi- 
lar delight. How could he bring himself to believe that they 
had been thrown away on the unpractised auditories of the maid 
of Congaree? 

The more he asked himself this question, the mcr«u difficult 
became his belief, and by the time that he reached his chamber, 
he was convinced that, at the most, he had only suffered an 
evasion — such an evarioi as dandies are apt to practise upon 
their tailors, when they avoid, without refusing, payment — such 
an evasion as a cunning damsel might practise upon her lover, 
lest a too sudden concession might cheapen the value of her 
charms. So conscling was this new conviction, that he deter- 
mined, in discarding his dove-colored small-clothes, not to put on 
his “Nightshade,” — so he called his “Despondency” or “Dis- 
appointment-dress;” but to select a dark orange-tinted garment 
— Ids “ Pleasant-sadness” — as more certainly expressive of min- 
gled hope and doubt, than any other color. The serious exami- 
nation which took place in his mind, and of his wardrobe, before 
Iris choice was determined, served, beneficially, to sustain his 
sensibilities under the shock which they had necessarily suffered. 
That evening he Avas pleasingly pensive, and his eloquence was 
agreeably enlivened by an occasional and long-drawn sigh. 

Flora Middleton did not suffer this “ Mosca” to afflict her 
thoughts. Naturally of a serious and earnest character, she had 
other sources of disquietude which effectually banished so light 
an object from her contemplation ; and nothing could so com- 
pletely have mystified the surgeon, as the calm, unmoved, and 
utterly unaffected manner with which she made the usual inqui- 
ries at the evening table. 

“Does your coffee suit you, Mr. Hillhouse? Is it sweet 
enough V* 

“ Would all things were equally so, Miss Middleton. We 
might dispense with the sweet in the coffee, could we escapo 
from the bitter of life.” 


374 


THE SCOUT. 


“ I should think, sir, that you had not been compelled to drink 
much of it ; or you have swallowed the draught with wonderful 
resignation.” 

“ Alas ! — have I not !” and he shook his smooth, sleek locks 
mournfully, from side to side, as if nobody had ever known such 
a long continued case of heart ache as his own. But Flora did 
not laugh. She war, i:a no mood for it ; and though the frequent 
n miseries cf the surgeon might have provoked her unbounded 
merriment at another time, her heart was too full of her own 
doubts and difficulties not to deprive her, most effectually, of 
any such disposition now. 

The next day she was aomewbat startled at the sudden arri- 
val of a man at the barony, whom sLo instantly recognised as 
the person meant by John Bannister when he spoke to her the 
day before. His frame was large and muscular, like that of 
Bannister, but he was deficient in one of his arms. She fancied, 
too, that he watched her with a good deal of interest, as he 
passed her on the staircase, making his way to the apartment of 
the invalid, and his attendant, Gray. It was evident that Ban- 
nister had some intimate knowledge cf what was going on 
among her inmates, and this was another reason why her own 
anxieties should increase, as she remembered the warnings to 
watchfulness which the worthy scout had given her. She was 
well disposed to confide in him. Stiange to say, though she 
knew him chiefly as the friend of Clarence Conway, and had 
every present reason co believe in the faithlessness and unwor- 
thiness of the latter, her confidence in, and esteem for, John 
Bannister, remained entirely unimpaired. The wonder was that 
Conway should have so entirely secured the affections of such a 
creature. This wonder struck Flora Middleton, hut she had 
heard of such instances, and it does not seem unnatural that 
there should be still some one, or more, who, in the general 
belief in our ui:worthme»s, should still doubt and linger on, and 
love to the very last. We are all unwilling to be disappointed 
in our friends, not because they are so, but because it is our 
judgment widen has made them so. Bewildered, and with a 
heavy heart, that seemed ominous of approaching evil, Flora 
retired to her chamber with an aching head, while our old ac 


THE RETURN OF THE BLACK RIDERS. 


375 


quaintance, Isaac Muggs, the landlord, was kept in busy consul- 
tation with the outlaw and his confidant. 

We pass over all such portions of the conference as do not 
promise to assist us in our narrative ; and the reader may fancy 
for himself the long ejaculations, which the landlord uttered, at 
finding his old associate and captain reduced to his present con- 
dition ; — ejaculations, which were increased in length and lugu- 
briousness, in due proportion with the treachery which Muggs 
meditated, and of which he had already been guilty. 

“ Enough, enough of your sorrow, good Isaac,” said the out- 
law with some impatience : “ these regrets and sorrows will do 
for a time when we have more leisure, and as little need of them. 
Give me good news in as few words as possible. Your good 
wishes I can readily understand without your speaking them.” 

Muggs professed his readiness to answer, and Watson Gray 
conducted the inquiry ; Morton, assisting only at moments, when 
moved by a particular anxiety upon some particular point. 

“ Did you meet Brydone before you separated from Rawdon'a 
army ?” 

“ Yes : lie joined us at Ninety-Six.” 

“ He told you the plan.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You are willing ? You’ve got the boats ?” 

“ I can get them.” 

“ When — in what time?” 

“ Well, in four days, I reckon, if need be.” 

“ Are you sure ?” 

“ I reckon, I may say so. I’m pretty sartin.” 

Here Morton turned upon the couch, and half raised himself 
from it. 

“ Look you, Muggs, you speak with only half a heart. You 
seem scared at something. What’s the matter with you, man < 
are you not willing?” 

“ Yes, cap’in, I’m willing enough. Why shouldn’t 1 be wil- 
ling ? I’ll do all that you ax me.” 

“ That is you’ll get the boats in readinesa aatc, at the land- 
ing, within four days ; but, are you willing to fly yourself? You 
are not fool enough to fancy that the rebels will let you remain 


THE SCOUT. 


376 

here when the army’s gone, to enjoy wha„ you’ve despoiled 
them ’of.” 

“No great deal, cap’in, T reckon.” 

“ Ay, but there is Muggs ! You cannot deceive me, though 
you may the rest. I know your gains, and a word of mine 
would send them flying much more rapidly than they were ever 
brought together. Do not provoke me, man, to speak that 
word.” 

“ Well, cap’in, I dont want to provoke you. Don’t I tell you 
that I’ll do all you wish.” 

“ Ay, but you seem d d lukewarm about it, Muggs ; and 

you have not said whether you are willing to j’oin our fortunes 
or not. Now, you j’oin us, heart and soul, body and substance, 
one and all, or we cut loose from you at once. You are in our 
power, Muggs, and we can destroy you at a moment’s warning. 
But it’s neither our policy nor wish to do so. You can help us 
materially, and we are willing to help you in return. Bounty 
lands await you in the West Indies. You will live with old 
friends and neighbors, and with your guineas ” 

“ Mighty few of them, I reckon, cap’in,” said Muggs. 

“ Few or many, you can only save them by flight. Are you 
ready ? Beware how you answer ! Beware ! You must go 
with us entirely, or not at all.” 

An acute observer might have seen, while the outlaw was 
speaking, an expression of sullenness, if not resistance, in the 
face of the landlord, which did not argue the utmost deference for 
the speaker, and seemed to threaten an outbreak of defiance. But 
if Muggs felt amy such mood, he adopted the wiser policy of 
suppressing it for the present. 

“ ’Swounds, cap’in,” he exclaimed, with more earnestness than 
he had before shown in the interview — “ You talk as if you was 
jub’ous of me, — as if I worn’t your best friend from the begin- 
ning. I’m willing to go with you, I’m sure, wherever you think 
it safest ; but you’re mistaken if you think I’ve got so much to 
lose, and so much' to carry away. Mighty little it would be, if 
the rebels did find every guinea and shilling in my keeping.” 

“ Pshaw, Muggs, you cannot blind me with that nonsense 
B*; your guineas few or many, it is enough that you know where 


THE RETURN OF THE BLACK RIDERS. 377 

to carry them, and liow to keep them in safety. And now, wha* 
of Rawdon ? Where did you leave him V 

“ At Ninety-Six.” 

“ He had beaten Greene ?” 

“ Run him off from the siege only.” 

“ Well : what next. Does Rawdon leave a garrison at Nine- 
ty-Six ?” 

“ I reckon not. There was some talk that he means to sarve 
it as he sarved Camden. Burn the town and tear up the stock- 
ade.” 

“As I thought. That’s, certainly, his proper policy. Well ! 
was the troop still with Rawdon?” 

No : they Avere gone after Conway, somewhere above upon 
the Ennoree.” 

“ May they find him, and batter out each other’s brains at the 
meeting,” was the pious and fraternal wish of the outlaw. 

“ And now, Muggs,” he continued, “ the sooner you take 
your departure the better. Get your boats ready, yourself and 
guineas, and be at the landing here, at midnight, four days 
hence.” 

“So soon!” said Gray. “ Do you think, captain, you’ll be 
able by that time ?” 

“ Ay h able for anything. I must be able. This flight of 
Rawdon will render mine necessary, with as little delay as 
possible.” 

“ But he has not fled yet ?” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! A retreat in his condition, is only another word 
for a flight. But if he does not yet fly, he will have to do so, 
before very long. He is preparing for it now, and I have for 
some time past been aware of the approaching necessity. He 
must not descend the country before I do, that is certain ; and 
if I can descend the Santee in boats, I can endure a wagon the 
rest of the way, to the head of Cooper river. The rest is easy. 
The important object is to secure faithful boatmen ; and with 
you, Muggs, and a few others, upon whom I can rely, I have 
no doubts, and no apprehensions.” 

The landlord was dismissed upon his secret mission. Watson 
Gray conducted him to the banks of the river, where lay the 


378 


THE SCOUT. 


identical boat in which our friend John Bannister had approached 
the shore in seeking the interview with Flora Middleton. It 
was huddled up in the green sedge and bushes at the edge of 
the river swamp, and thus concealed from the eyes of the pas- 
sing spectator. Before parting, Gray gave his final instructions 
to the landlord, in which he contemplated every matter essen- 
tial to the journey, and, perhaps, conducted the affair with less 
offence to the feelings of the latter than had been the case on 
the part of the outlaw. Scarcely had Watson Gray gone from 
sight, before Bannister emerged from the swamp thicket and 
joined the other. 

“He’s a cute chap, that same Watson Gray, as ever beat 
about a thicket without getting into the paws of a black bear at 
rutting season. I’m a thinking ef the man was decent honest, I’d 
sooner have him in a troop of mine, than any man I knows on. 
He’s a raal keener for a sarch. I’d reckon now, Isaac Muggs, 
from the way he slobber’d you over in talking, that he was a 
meaning to swallow you when all was done. It’s the way with 
the big snakes, when the mouthful is a leetle big at the begin- 
ning.” 

“I reckon that’s his meaning, Supple Jack, — I’m jub’ous 
that’s what both he and the cap’in are a conjuring.” 

“ And I am thinking, Muggs, that he was a trying to ease off 
something that he said to you before, which went agin the grain, 
and made the teeth grit.” 

“ ’Twan’t him that said it — ’twas the cap’in.” 

“A pair on ’em — both sarpents, — mou’t-be, different kinds 
of sarpent; but the bite of a rattle or a viper, is, after all, the 
bite of a sarpent ; and it don’t matter much which a man dies 
of, when both can kill. But what made the captain graze agin 
your feelings ?” 

“ Why, lie’s a trying to make a scare of me about staying 
here, when lie’s gone. He says there’s no safety for me among 
the rebels.” 

“ I reckon, Isaac Muggs, there’s an easy answer for all that. 
You’ve jest got to p’int to me, and say, ‘ That ’ere man convart- 
ed me by strong argyment,’ and I reckon nobody’ll be so bold 
as to touch you after that.” 


THE RETURN OF THE BLACK RIDERS. 379 

-<s 

“ He threatened me too ; — and I to be the first to advise him 
to make long tracks from the troop !” 

I’m mighty sorry you ever gin him such advice, Isaac,” 
said Bannister, rebukingly. 

“ Yes : but though he mado b’lieve that he was angry, and all 
that, now, to-night, he tells me how lie’s been getting ready a 
long time for a start.” 

“ I Iflieve him ! Indeed, I knows as much ! Well, I’m wil- 
ling that he should get away, Isaac Muggs, without any hurt to 
hair or hide. For, though he desarves hanging and quartering 
as much as ever man desarved it, yet lie’s come of the same 
blood, half way, with Clarence Conway ; and for his sake, I’m 
willing to let Ned Conway get clear of the hanging. I shouldn’t 
be so mighty anxious to help him out of the way of a bullet, for 
that’s the business of a soldier, to die by shot or steel, and it 
don’t disgrace him, though it’s hurtful to his feelings. I’d help 
to find the boat for him myself, and send him on his way, ef he 
was content to git oft' with his own hide in safety. But when 
lie’s after his villany to the last — when I know that he wants 
to carry oft' another Congaree gal, and, this time, agin her 
will ” 

“I’m a-thinking, Supple, that you’re clean mistaken in that 
Neither him nor Gray said a word about it.” 

“ Not to you , Isaac. They’d ha’ been but small sodgers if 
they had. No ! no ! They know’d that twa’n’t the w r ay to get 
their business done, to make it more difficult. They were rathei 
ub’ous of you, you say yourself, though all they pretended to 
want of you was, jest to carry off the cap’in. Would it ha' 
made it any easier to tell you that they wanted you to help to 
carry off the young woman from her friends and family ; and, as 
I’m thinking, to stop also in their way down and clean the plan- 
tation of his father’s widow of all it’s niggers ? No ! no j Isaac ! 
They know how to play the game better than that. They tell 
you they play for high and low, only ; but watch them well, 
and they’ll make their Jack too, and try mighty hard to count 
up game ! But, the game’s in our hands now, Isaac : at least, 
I’m a-thinking so. As for you and your guineas — I don’t ax 
/ou how many you’ve got — but jest you do as I tell you, and 


1580 


THE SCOUT. 


I’ll answer for their safety. We’ll get the boats and the hands 
between us, and we’ll have ’em all ready when the time comes, 
and if the gal is to be whipped off, it won’t make it less pleasant 
to us to have the handling of her. Do you cross the river now, 
and be sure and put the boat high up in the creek. I’ll keep 
on this side a leetle longer. I have a leetle matter of business 
here.” 

“ You’re mighty ventersome, Supple.” 

“ It’s a sort o’ natur’, Isaac. I always was so. A leetle 
dance on the very edge of the dangerous place, is a sort of 
strong drink to me, and makes my blood warm and agreeable- 
I’ll jest scout about the woods here and see who’s waking and 
who’s sleeping; and who’s a-tween sleeping and waking like 
myself.” 

The first attentions of Jack Bannister were paid to the sleep 
ing. He watched the progress of his comrade, until his little 
barge had disappeared from sight in the distance, then made his 
way with the intensity of a natural affection, to the lonely spot 
where his hands had dug the grave for Mary Clarkson, and 
where her body had been laid. Here lie paused a few moments 
in silent meditation, then proceeded to the dense thicket to 
which, on the night when she fled from the barony, he bore her 
inanimate person. 

When he reached the spot, he kindled his light, and drew 
from a hollow tree a hatchet and rude saw which had been 
formed from an old sabre, the teeth of which had been made by 
hacking it upon some harder edge than its own. He then pro- 
duced from another place of . concealment sundry pieces of tim- 
ber, upon which he had already spent some labor, and to which 
his labor was again addressed. Gradually, a long, slender, and 
not ungracefully wrought shaft of white wood appeared beneath 
his hands, into which he morticed the arms of a cross, with a 
degree of Meatness, and symmetry, which would have done no 
discredit to the toils of a better artist, under the more certain 
guidance of the daylight. This little memento, he was evidently 
preparing, in silence and seclusion, and with that solemnity 
which belongs to the pure and earnest affection, for the lonely 
grave which he had just visited. With a fond toil, which with 


THE RETURN 0 F THE 3LACK RIDERS. 


381 


held no care, and spared no effort, lie now proceeded — his more 
heavy task being finished — to a portion of his work which, per 
haps, was the most fatiguing of all the labors of love which he 
had imposed upon himself. This was to cut into the wood the 
simple initials of the poor girl for whom the memorial was in- 
tended. Our worthy woodman was no architect, and the rude 
Gothic letters which his knife dug into the wood, may perhaps 
have awakened, subsequently, the frequent smile of the irrev- 
erent traveller. He possibly anticipated the criticisms of the 
forward schoolboy, as he murmured, while sweating over his 
nide labors — 

“ It’s a precious small chance for l’arning that Jack Bannhter 
ever got upon the Congaree ; but it’s the best that I can do for 
poor Mary, and I’d ha’ been willing to give her the best of me 
from the beginning. But twa’n’t ordered so by Providence, and 
there’s no use for further talk about it. If I hadn’t used a rr-an’s 
wn’pon upon her, I’d be a-mighty deal more easy now, but God 
knows, ’twasn’t meant for her — ’twasn’t any how from the heart 
— and ’twas nateral that a man should strike, hard and quick, 
when he finds another jumping out upon him from the bush. 
Wlio’d ha’ thought to find a gal in man’s clothes, jest then too, 
in the thick of the fighting 'l But the Lord’s over all, and*he 
does it for the best. That sorrow’s done with, or ought to be 
done with ; and the sensible person ought to be satisfied to look 
out and prepare only for them that’s yet to come. This board 
is a sort of line between them old times and the coming ones ; 
and these two letters shall say to Jack Bannister, nothing more 
than — ‘Look for’a’d, Jack; there’s no use in looking back!’ 
Yet everybody can make ’em out, though they may read quite 
another lesson. They’ll laugh, may be at such printing. It’s 
bad enough, sartin ; but it’s the best I could do. There’s a 
mighty ugly lean about that ‘M.,’ jest as if it was a tumbling 
for’a’d upon the ‘0.’ — yet I thought I had got the two running 
pretty even together. Well, there’s no helping it now. It 
must stand till the time comes when I can pay the stonecutter 
to do a good one.” 

From his horn, he filled with powder the lines which he had 
cut in the wood, and then ignited it. The blackened traces 


382 


THE SCOUT. 


made the simple inscription sufficiently distinct, and t,he good 
fellow, shouldering his rude monument, bore it to the grave, and 
drove it down at the head of. the inmate. 

He had not well finished this work, before he fancied that he 
heard foreign sounds mingling suddenly with the murmurs of 
the Congaree, as it plied its incessant way below. He listened, 
and the murmurs deepened. He went forward, cautiously, 
through the wood, and it was not long before he discerned the 
advance of a body of men, all well mounted, whom, upon y. 
nearer approach, he discerned to be the Black Riders. 

John Bannister was not a man to be alarmed easily; but he 
retreated, and stole into the cover of a bay, the thicket of which 
he knew was not penetrable by cavalry. Here he crouched in 
silence, and the formidable band of outlaws slowly wound along 
m silence, through the forest, and on the very edge of the 
thicket in which he lay concealed. 

A new care filled his bosom, as he beheld their progress in 
the direction of the barony. He had no means of contending 
with such a force, and where was Clarence Conway ? Feeling 
for his commander, and sympathizing with his affections, the 
first thought of Bannister had reference to the new dangers 
whtch beset the path of Flora Middleton. He was surprised, 
however, to perceive that the banditti came to a halt but a little 
distance from him. They alighted, the words of command were 
passed along in whispers, and in ten minutes they prepared k? 
bivouac. 


UTRSHES 


38 ?, 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

MESHES. 

u Well, it’s mighty strange, I’m thinking, that they don’t go 
foFa’d. They're as cautious and scary, now, as ef the whole of 
Sumter’s rigiment was at the Park. They’re after some new 
mischief that’s more in want of a night covering than any 
they’ve ever done before. Well, we’ll see! There’s Watson 
Gray with his corporal’s guard at the house; and here’s the 
BlacK Riders here ; and if the two git together, it’s precious 
little that John Bannister can do, with the help of Isaac Muggs, 
and he with one hand only. Ef I could work poor Jake Clark- 
son out of their fingers, he’d make a third, and no small help 
he’d give us in a straight for’a’d, up and down fight. But, I’m 
jnb’ous he stands a bad chance in the grip of Watson Gray. 
Ef I could g : t round now to the barony, and show reason to 
Miss Flora to slip off to the river, I wouldn’t wait for Ned Con- 
way to stir; but I’d rule her away in the Congaree, where the 
swamp-fox himself could I’t find her. But then there’s no hope 
of that. There’s a strange way of thinking among young 
women that’s never had the blessing of a husband, as ef it 
wouldn’t be so decent and cdicate to trust a single man under 
such sarcum stances : which is mighty foolish ! But something 
must be done, and John Bannister must be in the way of doing 
it. Lord love us! — ef lie would only send Clarence now, with 
fifty of his troop, among these bloody black refugees !” 

The course of John Bannister’s thoughts may be traced ir. 
he above soliloquy. The good fellow felt the difficulties of his 
own position ; though, it is clear, that apprehension for himself 
was the last subject in his mind ; the only one which awakened 
no anxiety, and called forth little consideration. To rescue 
Flora Middleton was his sole object. He knew the desires of 
Kdwav* Conway for that maiden, and naturally concluded that 


884 


THE SCOUT. 


Jie arrival of his troop would give him the power to accomplish 
his wishes, even by violence, if necessary. It was therefore a 
reasonable occasion for surprise and conjecture, when he found 
the outlaws taking their halt and supper on the skirts of the 
barony, and in profound silence and secrecy. That they should 
keep aloof from their captain, when nothing lay in the way to 
prevent or retard their reunion with him, was naturally calculated 
to mystify the fccout. He little knew the character and extent 
of those malign influences, which prevafled among that wild and 
savage body, unfavorable to their ancient leader. 

It was with increasing concern and interest that Bannister, in 
following and watching the movements of the outlaws, found 
them about to throw a line of sentinels between the grounds of 
the barony and the river landing. This measure denoted certain 
suspicions which they entertained, as he fancied, of the practices 
in which he had been recently engaged ; and it became neces 
sary that he should find means to apprise his comrade, Muggs, 
on the other side of the Congaree, of the danger that awaited 
any undue exposure of his person in his future crossings to and fro 

“A long swim!” muttered the faithful scout, with a slight 
shiver, as he surveyed the river ; “ and rather a cold swim, too, 
at midnight; but I’ll have to do it. If I don’.,, they’ll riddle 
poor Isaac’s belly with bullets, when he *' 1 thinking of nothing 
worse to put in it than his breakfast. But I must dodge about 
l he house first and see what’s a-going on in that quarter. It 
seems mighty stmnge that they shor idn’t have made themselves 
known to their captain. What’s o be afeard of? But rogue* 
is always a myster’ous and jubVus sort of things. A rascai 
never goes straight to his busmens. If he has to shake hands 
with you he does it with a sort of twist, and a twirl, and some- 
times a squint, that looks every which way but the right one. 
Now, it’s reasonable that a good scout should shy off, and dodge, 
and make himself as squat and small, under a bush, as he nater- 
ally can, and as a big body will let him. But when the game’s 
a straight-for’a’d one — when there’s no dangers nor no inimy, 
and only one’s own affairs to see after — it’s a sign of a rogue 
all over that he shirks. It shows that he shirks from the love 
of the thing, and not because it’s a needcessity.” 


MESHES. 


38A 


John Bannister did not suffer his moral philosophy to keep 
him inactive. He was one of those who philosophize yet go 
forward — a race of which the world has comparatively few. In 
obedience to his determination, as expressed above, he stole 
through the ways which had be«n sufficiently traversed by liis 
feet to be familiar, which led him, without detection, to the 
grounds immediately about the mansion. At the front door of 
the dwelling, which was closed, he saw one sentinel on duty. 
But he yawned, emphatically and loud, more than once while 
the scout watched him ; and by his listless movements seemed 
evidently weary enough of his post to leave it to itself at the 
first seasonable summons. The most perfect military subordi- 
nation was not preserved by him as he paced to and fro along 
the court. He sang, and whistled, and soliloquized ; and, not 
unfrequently, relieved the dull measured step of the sentinel by 
the indulgence of such a gavotte as a beef-eating British soldier 
of the “ prince’s own” might be supposed capable of displaying 
in that period of buckram movement. 

“ He’d hop higher and dance a mighty sight better,” mur- 
mured John Bannister, as he beheld the “ signior of the night” 
in this grave exercise, “ ef he was only on the ‘ liberty’ side of 
the question. He gits a shilling a day, and a full belly ; but he 
ain’t got the light heart after all. Give me a supper of acorns, 
b’iled or unb’iled, in the Santee swamp, before all his hot bread ; 
if so be, the cause I’m a-fighting for can’t give me a better heart 
to dance than that. Lord ! he can no more shake a leg with 
the Congaree Blues than he can sight a rifle !” 

Contenting himself with this comparison, and the brief survey 
which had induced it, he turned away, and, traversing the set- 
tlement, came to the out-house in which, once before, he had 
seen the guard busy in their gaming practices. A light glim- 
mering through the log chinks apprized him of the presence 
there of an occupant ; and, approaching cautiously, and peeping 
through an aperture in the rear of the mud structure, he was 
struck with the sight of an object, to him, of very painful inte- 
rest. This was Jake Clarkson, very securely fastened with 
ropes, which confined both his hands and fee-t. 

The old man leaned, rather than sat, against the wall of one 

1 


386 


THE SCOUT. 


section of tlie building. A dull composure, which seemed thw 
of a mortal apathy, overspread the poor fellow’s countenance 
His eyes were half closed, his mouth drawn down, yet open, and 
the listlessness of death, if not its entire unconsciousness, pre- 
vailed in the expression of all his features. 

Four of the British soldiers were present in the apartment . 
two of them stretched at length upon the floor, seemingly asleep, 
and the other two, busy to themselves, playing languidly at 
their favorite game, which they relieved by a dialogue carried 
on sufficiently loud to enable Bannister to learn its purport. 
From this he gathered enough to know that the improvement 
of Edward Conway was such as to promise them a change, for 
which they pined, from the dull monotonous recurrence of the 
same unexciting duties, to the adventures of the march, and all 
those circumstances of perpetual transition, which compensate 
the rover for all the privations which he must necessarily un- 
dergo in leaving his early homestead. 

But the eyes and thoughts of Bannister were fixed on the 
prisoner only. The pressure of surrounding foes only made him 
the more anxious to gather together and secure his friends ; and 
thinking of poor Mary was also calculated to make him eagerly 
desirous to recover her father. This desire grew more keen and 
irresistible the more he watched and reflected, and it was with 
some difficulty that lie restrained his lips from the impetuous 
assertion of his determination to release him from his bonds or 
perish. This resolve, though not expressed aloud, was still the 
occasion of a brief soliloquy. 

“ Dang my buttons, ef I don’t try it ! If there’s time it can 
be done, and there’s no harm in trying. A rifle in Jake’s hands 
is a something that acts as well as speaks ; and if so be, we’re 
to have trouble, a bullet from a twisted bore is a mighty good 
argyment in clearing the track for the truth. It’s a sort of axe- 
stroke, leading the way for the grubbing-lioe.” 

Ten minutes after, and Jake Clarkson was roused from Ida 
stupor by the slight prick of a sharp instrument from beh’. \ • 
nim. The nervous sensibility of the old man had been pretty 
well blunted by time, trial, and misfortune ; and he neither 
parted nor showed the slighest symptom of excitement. B>-? 


MESHES. 


887 


his eyes grew brighter, bis mind was brought back to the world 
in which his body lingered still, and a lively apprehension was 
awakened within him, lest the gambling soldiers should see, or 
bear, the hand that he now felt was busy in the effort to extri 
cate him from his bonds. He did not dare to stir or look ; but 
he was already conscious that the couteau dc chasse of the wood- 
man, fastened to a long stick, had been thrust through the crev- 
ices of the logs, and was busily plied in sawing asunder the 
cords that fastened his arms. These had been tied behind the 
prisoner, and he prudently kept them in that position, even 
though, in a few moments after, he felt that their ligatures had 
yielded to the knife. 

The workman ceased from without. His task, so far as it 
could be effected by him, seemed to be ended ; but the feet of 
the prisoner were still secured. The friendly assistant seemed 
to have disappeared. A full half hour elapsed and Jake heard 
nothing. The soldiers still kept at tlieir game, and the prisoner, 
exhausted with the excitement of his new hope, leaned once 
more against the wall. 

In doing so he again felt the sharp prick of the knife-point. 
Cautiously, but with nerves that trembled for the first time, he 
availed himself of one of his freed hands to possess himself of 
the instrument ; which now, separated from the handle, had 
been left by the scout for the farther benefit of the prisoner. 
He clutched it with strange delight. The momentary impulse 
almost moved him to spring to his feet, and bound upon the 
guard with the most murderous determination. But the prudence 
of his friend’s course from without, was not wasted upon him, 
and he contented himself with quietly securing the knife behind 
him, placing his hands in the same position in which his cords 
had previously secured them, and, with new hopes in his bosom, 
preparing to wait the proper moment when he might safely pro- 
ceed to finish the work of his emancipation. 

Satisfied that he had done all that he could, at this time, for 
the rescue of Clarkson, the scout took his way back to the river, 
the banks of which he ascended a few hundred yards, and then, 
without reluctance, committed himself to the stream. Half-way 
Across, the rocks afforded him a momentary resting-place, from 


388 


THE SCOUT. 


which he surveyed, with a mournful satisfaction, the white cross 
which his hands, but a little while before, had reared upon the 
grave of Mary Clarkson. It stood conspicuous in sight for several 
miles along the river. 

The still hours of the night were speeding on ; and the mur- 
mur of the river began to be coupled with the sudden notes of 
birds, along its banks, anticipating the approach of the morning 
A sense of weariness for the first time began to oppress the 
limbs of the woodman, and it needed a strong and resolute men- 
tal effort to prevent him from yielding to sleep upon the slippery 
black rock which gave him a temporary resting-place in the 
bosom of the stream. Plunging off anew, he reached the op- 
posite banks, fatigued but not dispirited. Here, he soon trans- 
ferred the duties of the watch to his comrade. To the landlord 
he briefly communicated the events of the evening, and bestowed 
upon him the necessary advice for caution. 

Meanwhile, a spirit equally anxious and busy, pervaded the 
breasts of some few in the encampment of the Black Riders. 
The watches had been set, the guards duly placed, and the 
sentinels, being made to form a complete cordon around the 
barony, Lieutenant Stockton, acting as captain, went aside, in 
consultation with his apt coadjutor, Ensign Darcy. The tone 
and language of the former were now much more elevated, 
more confident and exulting, than usual. The realization of 
his desires was at hand. He had met the approbation of Lord 
Rawdon, in the conduct which he had displayed in the manage- 
ment of his troop during the late march, and nothing seemed 
wanting to his wishes but that his immediate superior should be 
no longer in his way. To supersede him, however, was not 
easy, since the personal grounds of hostility which Stockton felt 
could not be expressed to their mutual superior ; and these were 
such as to lead the former to desire something beyond the mere 
command of the troop which he had in charge. 

It was necessary not merely to degrade but to destroy his 
principal. The humiliating secret which Edward Morton pos- 
sessed, to his detriment, was equally an occasion for his hate 
and fear ; and all his arts had been*exercised to And some pre- 
text for putting out of his way a person whose continued life 


MESHES. 


389 


threatened him with constant and humiliating exposure. Cir 
cumstances had co-operated with the desires of the conspirators. 
The secret of Edward Morton had been betrayed. It was 
known that he desired to escape from the troop ; — that he was 
planning a secret flight to the city ; — that he had already sent 
off considerable treasure; and, that he awaited nothing but a 
partial recovery of his strength, and the arrival of certain boats 
which had been pledged to him by the landlord, Muggs, to put 
his project in execution. 

In thus proceeding, he had violated the laws of the confede- 
racy — the fearful oath which bound the outlaws together — 
an oath taken in blood ; and the violation of which incurred all 
the penalties of blood. No wonder that Stockton exulted. His 
proceedings were now all legitimate. His hate had a justifiable 
sanction, according to the tenets of his victim, equally with him- 
self. It was the law of the troop. It was now indeed his duty 
to prosecute to the death the traitor who would surrender all of 
them to destruction ; and the only remaining security left to 
Morton was the rigid trial to which his band was sworn. The 
bloody doom which his treachery incurred, was to be inflicted 
only after the fullest proofs that it was justly merited. In this 
lay his only chance of safety, and this chance rested upon a 
slender foundation. One of his special and most trusted agents 
had been bought over by the machinations of Darcy, and had 
betrayed him. He had involved another of the band in his 
developments, and this other had confessed. Two witnesses 
concurring against him and the proof was held to be conclusive ; 
and of these two witnesses Stockton was now secure. 

But other considerations were involved in the deliberations of 
the parties. Edward Morton they knew to be a desperate man. 
Watson Gray was a man to be feared as well as hated. These 
were in possession of a strong brick dwelling, with probably a 
dozen musketeers under arms, and commanded by Rawdon to 
obey them in every particular. 

It was no part of the policy of Stockton, to come to blows 
under such circumstances. Some artifice was necessary to effect 
his objects. To get the soldiers out of the way, to baffle Gray, 
and secure possession of Edward Morton, was the design which 


390 


THE SCOUT. 


they had resolved upon, and this required considerable manage 
ment, and excessive caution in tilth approach. Besides, one of 
their witnesses was absent on a scout, and to declare their pur 
pose, until he was present to maintain it by his oath, would have 
been premature and imprudent. It was also their object to 
capture the landlord, Muggs, whose proposed agency in securing 
the boats for the flight of Edward Morton was known to the 
conspiiators through the individual who had first betrayed his 
employer to his enemies. Hence the watch which had been set 
upon the river-landing, and which had compelled Bannister to 
swim the stream that night. 

These matters formed the subjects of deliberation between 
the two conspirators. Their successes, so far, made them san- 
guine of the future ; and the rich rewards which it promised 
them, made them equally joyful. The treasures of their captain 
were to be equally divided between themselves, and we find 
them accordingly quite as busy in counting, as in securing their 
chickens. 

“ Pete Flagg has charge of the negroes, over two hundred 
already, and there are those from the place of his stepmother, 
which he planned to take off with him in these boats of Muggs. 
I know where to go for his guineas — ay, to lay my hands upon 
the vault ; but we must get the memorandum acknowledgment 
which I reckon he has about him, from John Wagner, who 
keeps his money. There must be three thousand guineas at the 
least.” 

“ We share equally,” said Stockton, with eager eyes. “ That 
of course is understood.” 

“ Yes : but there should be a private paper between us,’' s*. 
Darcy. 

“ What need ? we know each other.” 

“Ay, but the best friends can not be too cautious. I have 
drawn out a little memorandum which we can both sign to- 
morrow.” 

“ Agreed ; I’m willing. But no witnesses, Darcy — that would 
rain all.” 

“ Yes — that’s the u- 1. Let the troop once know what wo 


MESHES. 391 

count upon — and our cliance would be as bad, or even worse 
than his. We should hang with him !” 

“ Him we have ! Him we have ! I would Brydone were 
here. I long for the moment to wind up our long account of 
iiate. It will be the sweetest moment of my life when I com- 
mand them to drag him to the tree.” 

“Be patient — don’t let your hate risk our gains. We can 
get nothing by working rashly. These eight or ten soldiers 
that he has here would make desperate fight. That scoundrel, 
Gray, must have suspected us when he asked Rawdon for 
them.” 

“Well, well — he’ll have his turn also.” 

“ I doubt we’ll have to fix him along with the captain. He’s 
a bird out of the same nest.” 

“ I shall be willing. I have no love for him.” 

“ Did you tell Brydone when to meet you here V* 

“ Yes ! — that’s all arranged !” 

“ By that time we ought to have possession of the captain.” 

“Ay, then or never. We must have him and all things in 
readiness by the time Brydone comes. Are you sure of the 
men 1 Is there none doubtful 1” 

“ None. There’s a few milk-hearted fellows only, but they’re 
of the scary sort. They’ll offer no opposition when they find so 
many against them.” 

“ Be sure of them, also, if you can. I’d even give something 
to make all sure. There must be no bungling at the last mo- 
ment. If there is, and he has any chance to talk, he is so d — d 
artful of tongue, that he’d work courage into the most cowardly 
heart. I fear him still.” 

“ I do not. I know them, and I know him,” replied the 
subordinate. “ His day is done. He hasn’t the same power 
over them that he had of old, and the late profits have enlight- 
ened them considerably on the subject of your better manage- 
ment.” 

“ Yes, those guineas were good arguments, I think.” 

“ Famous. But the better is to be shown. His treachery is 
the best. Let them but know conclusively that his purpose is 
to give them up, break the law, and leave them — perhaps. 


« 


892 


THE SCOUT. 


betray them into Sumter's clutches — and there will be but one 
voice among them, and that will be, ‘Death to the traitor!’ ” 

“ So be it. To-morrow night we have him, and with the rise 
of another sun he dies.” 

“ Yes, if Brydone comes in time for the trial.” 

“ Brydone or not, Darcy — he dies.” 


CHAPTER XXX Y. 

BAGATELLE BEFORE BUSINESS. 

This will suffice to show the policy of the confederates 
Their plans of treachery were nearly complete, and they were 
weaving them with the silent industry and circumspection of the 
spider, who already sees and has chosen his victim. 

Little did Edward Morton fancy, at this moment, the web 
that environed and the dangers which threatened him. He 
himself was busy in his own plans of similar treachery. His 
wounds were healing fast, his strength returning, and with his 
strength came back the old passions of evil which had hereto- 
fore inflamed his heart to its own debasement. The mournful 
fate of the poor Mary Clarkson had already passed from his 
thought, and almost from his memory ; and, if remembered at 
all, it was only in connection with the new feeling of freedom 
which he' felt in her absence. Her death he now regarded as a 
sort of Providential interference, by which he was relieved of a 
burden at the auspicious moment when it must have become 
more burdensome than ever. 

Circumstances seemed to favor him on every hand ; and the 
influence of mind upon matter was never more favorably shown 
than in the improvement of his health and strength, under the 
agreeable sensations which he experienced from a review of all 
the promising results which seemed to await only his recovery. 
In a few days his bark, richly freighted, was to bear him away 
to a region of security and peace, in which, free from all haras 


if 


BAGATELLE BEFORE BUSINESS. 


393 


sing dangers which had so long attended his progress, he was 
to enjoy the fruit of his toils, and taste the luxuries of a fresh 
and long-desired delight. He would shake himself free from 
his old connections — a wish long since entertained; he would 
fly with the woman whom he loved, from the foes whom he 
feared and hated — to the peace for which he had yearned, 
and to that affluence which a mercerary appetite for gain had 
already accumulated in abundance. 

No wonder, then, that, revelling in these convictions, he 
laughed and sang at intervals, as Watson Gray and himself 
discussed their mutual plans and glowing expectations. The 
skies never seemed to look down more propitiously bright than 
upon their joint wishes and performances; and even Watson 
Gray, habitually stern and composed in his bearing and de- 
meanor, condescended to join in his principal’s merriment, and to 
minister to his mirthful mood, by a relation of such of the par- 
ticulars of the surgeon’s wooing as had come to his knowledge. 

We have seen the share which Gray had in promoting the 
objects of Hillhouse. He knew, of course, that Flora Middle- 
ton would scorn such a suitor. He had already beheld the 
indifference — to call the feeling by its most innocent epithet — 
with which she regarded him ; and he, as well as the outlaw, 
knew enough of human, or rather woman nature, to be sure that 
the result of his application would be at once amusing and 
unsuccessful. Gray recounted, for the benefit of his superior, 
the preparatory toils which Hillhouse had undergone at his toi- 
let — partly in his presence — in determining upon the colors of 
his suit, the style and pattern of his dress, and the manner, 
audacious or subdued, in which lie should make his first ap- 
proaches. In choosing his costume, he seemed disposed to 
realise the pictorial satire with which the ancient artists used to 
describe the self-perplexity of the Englishman in putting on his 
clothes : — 

“I om 8n Englishman, and naked I stand here, 

Muling in my mind what garment I shall wear; 

Now I shall wear this, and now I shall wear that, 

And now I shall wear — I can not tell what.” 

The reader is aware that the dove-colored suit was triumph 


394 


THE SCOUT. 


ant; but lie does not so well know the peculiar air whicL 
marked the carriage of the suitor. Watson Gray had seen him 
depart, and had beheld him on his return. We know, that by 
the time Hillhouse got back to the house, he had fairly con- 
vinced himself that the unqualified rejection of Flora Middleton 
had been, in reality, nothing more than that ordinary mode of 
evasion among the sex, of the uses of which none of them are 
wholly ignorant, and with which they simply mean to heighten 
the value of their subsequent concessions. 

Thus assured, his countenance wore nothing of discomfiture 
in its expression. Nay, so perfectly triumphant did it seem, 
that Gray, who could not altogether believe that the world 
possessed any instance of such thoroughly self-blinding vanity, 
began to tremble lest Flora, with that weakness of the sex 
which makes them miracles of caprice upon occasion, had, ir. 
her unhappy moments, been over-persuaded and had yielded. 
Staggered for an instant by this apprehension, he was left but a 
little while in doubt. When Hillhouse gave the tenor of her 
answer, Gray laughed outright, and hurried away to share the 
pleasure with his superior. The surgeon followed him to the 
chamber of the outlaw, as soon as he had succeeded in adopting 
the symbol of a fitting sentiment for the new change which he 
contemplated in his garments ; and, without intending any such 
favor, he delighted the invalid by a candid revelation of the 
events which had just taken place, and which he deemed to be 
so favorable to his desires. 

“May you always be so fortunate!” was the generous wish 
of the outlaw, as the surgeon concluded his narrative. 

“ Thank you. You are too good. I doubt not I shall be. 
But, in truth, is it not wonderful that a country girl — a mere 
rustic, as she is — should be able to practise those arts which 
belong only to fashionable life V y 

“An instinct — an instinct, my dear sir.” 

“Well, ’pon my affections, I think so.” 

“They’re all alike, Mr. Hillhouse — high and low, rich ana 
poor, city-bred and country-bred — they all know how to baffle 
the ardent, and stimulate by baffling.” 

“ It will somewhat reconcile me to the event,” said the sur 


BAGATELLE BEFORE BUSINESS 


396 


geon. “ I had my apprehensions about the poor girl’s hearing 
in good society. I should have felt the awkwardness of bringing 
into the upper circles the unsophisticated damsel of the woods, 
such as she seemed to be at first ; but now ” 

“The instinct of the sex will usually supply the want of 
training — it will save you every annoyance; but, even were it 
otherwise, Mr. Hillhouse, how charming would it have been to 
have shown her in the fine world as the beautiful savage from 
the Oongaree !” 

' Gad, yes ! I never thought of that.” 

“ An aboriginal princess.” 

“ Like Powkerhorontas ! Ay, I have heard of that princess. 
She was a Virginian princess. My old friend, Sir Marmaduke 
Mincing, told me all her history — how she had fought her 
father, and rescued the captain — what was his name? — But no 
matter — It was something very low and vulgar. She married 
him ; and Sir Marmaduke, who had seen her, said she Had 
really a very human countenance, and was quite like a woman ; 
but” — lifting his hands in horror — “her feet? They were 
monstrous. They were four feet, rather than two. Ha, ha ! 
four feet ! Do you take me with you, Captain Conway ? Fou* 
feet rather than two !” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Gray; and Conway also echoed the 
laughter of the surgeon, but it was rather at himself than his wit. 

“ But the feet of your princess here, Miss Middleton, are really 
very good, and rather small feet, Mr. Hillhouse. They wil. 
r.ccasion no fright !” 

“ Ah, true, quite respectable as feet — quite respectable ! She 
will do ; and your idea, sir, that she would be so distingue , ap- 
pearing in the character of la belle sauvage , reconciles all objec- 
tions wonderfully. I think much better of the young creature 
Ilian before. I do, really.” 

“JNo doubt you should; but Mr. Hillhouse — not to interrupt 
the pleasantness of your dreams — let me remark that war and 
*cve do not enjoy the same camping ground long, as they do not 
olten employ the same weapons. The one is very apt to scare 
awav the other. You, sir, have little time to lose. Are you 
aware that Lord Rawdon is in full retreat ?” 


396 


THE SCOUT. 


“ Retreat — from what ?” 

“ The enemy — the rebels. He has been compelled to evactfr 
ate Ninety-Six.” 

“ Evacuate ! what an unpleasant word !” 

“ You’ll find it so, unless you proceed in your attack with in- 
creased vigor. You will soon be compelled to evacuate Brier 
Park, leaving la belle sauvage to the care of other savages not 
so beautiful, and possibly something more dangerous.” 

“ You discompose my nerves, Captain Conway. May I learti 
if all this be true — be certain]” 

“ Too true : ask Mr. Gray. He brings me the intelligence, 
lie has just received it.” 

“ Sure as a gun,” said Gray. 

“ And with quite as startling a report,” continued the outlaw. 
“ What you do will need to be done quickly. You must press 
the siege.” 

“Night and day,” added Watson Gray. 

“ You can’t stop for regular approaches,” continued Morton. 
“ Remember you have nothing but field-works to contend 
with ” 

“ And, for ” added the surgeon, rubbing his hands with a 

gentle eagerness. 

“ Sap and storm at the same moment, Mr. Hillhouse. You 
must go through and over the works both ; or expect to raise 
the siege very shortly. I doubt if you have three days left you. 
Lord Rawdon will be on his way for the Eutaw before that 
time.” 

“My dear friend! you rejoice while you alarm me. I will 
not suffer any delay. But haste is so vulgar.” 

“ Except in flight.” 

“ Ah ! even there ; one can not dispose his garments well, anrt 
the face is flushed, and the manner is flurried. But there are 
eases of necessity ” 

“ Imperative necessity !” 

“ Yes ; when we have to dispense with ordinary rules of con 
duct.” 

“ All active movements are of this sort, whether they comem- 
plate flight or assault. Your affair coir bines both. You must 


BAGATELLE BEFORE BUSINESS. 397 

make your attack shortly, for your retreat must soon follow that 
of his lordship.” 

“ True, most true !” 

“ And how honorable is it to carry off a prisoner even in 
tiiglit !” 

4 it softens the necessity — it takes the shame from defeat/’ 

“ It redeems it,” said the outlaw ; “ and such a prisoner, too i 
Ah ! Mr. Hillhouse, you are certainly a man to be envied.” 

“ My dear captain, you do most certainly flatter me. But I 
was born under a fortunate star. I have been thus fortunate 
always, and particularly .among the sex. Remind me to relate 
to you some curious successes which I have had. But not now. 
I must leave you now. Forgive me that I am thus abrupt. But 
I go in obedience to your counsel. I go to prepare for the war. 
B^ the way, those metaphors of yours were well carried on. I 
shall endeavor to recall them at the first leisure ; those, in which 
you spoke of the prosecution of my present purpose, by sap and 
storm, and so forth. I suspect, captain, that you, too, have been 
rather a fortunate person, in your own experience, among the 
women. But, your field has not been a difficult one. Women 
are very accessible in America, though I certainly do not agree 
with my old friend, but present enemy, the Marquis de Chas- 
tellux,* who says that a Frenchman may do anything w r ith the 
women of your country.” 

“ Does he say that f — the scoundrel !” exclaimed the outlaw, 
with a burst of provincial indignation. 

“ Now,” continued the surgeon, “ had he said Englishman for 
Frenchman, there would have been some reason in it ; though 
it isn’t every Englishman, either, of whom such a thing might 
be said.” 

The outlaw and his comrade both looked serious. The reply 
of the former was made with some effort at composure, and the 
“wreathed smile” upon his lips was the result of some straggle 
with his sterner passions. 

*« No, sir ; the instances are not frequent, I suspect. But the 

* For what the Marquis does say, see his “Travels in North America,” New 
V ,'rk edition, p. 2(J0. The sample of complaisance is very French and arau 
ting. 


398 


THE SCOUT. 


opinion may naturally be entertained in its full extent by one 
who has been, and is destined to be, so uniformly successful 
everywhere.” 

" Thank you, captain — you are too flattering. But I confess 
— I have had my successes — I have, Heaven knows!”— with 
an air of profound humility, as he bowed himself out of the 
apartment. — “ Heaven knows, I have had successes which might 
well turn the heads of wiser men than myself.” 

“The ape! — the monstrous ape !” exclaimed Morton, “was 
there ever such an ape !” 

“ A long-eared ass !” muttered his more rude companion ; “ a 
long-eared ass, if ever there was one ! If Miss Flora don’t pull 
his ears, it won’t be because she don’t see ’em.” 

“ No ! It’s devilish strange that such a fellow should pre- 
serve his follies amidst all his changes, and while pursuing a life 
which, more than any other, would be likely to lop off the affec- 
tations and conceits of boyhood.” 

“Well, I reckon,” said Gray, “lie’s just like a great many 
others, who know they can’t pass for wise men, and are deter- 
mined to pass anyhow. A fool would rather you’d see him as a 
fool than not see him at all.” 

“ Egad !” exclaimed Morton, with all the enthusiasm of a new 
idea, “ Egad ! I think I’ll see this fellow at his follies. I’ll 
make an effort, Gray, to get down stairs this very afternoon.” 

“ Don’t think of such a thing,” said Gray. 

“ Ay, but I will ! I feel strong enough for it, and a change 
of objects will do me good. I long to feast my eyes, also, upon 
the charms of the fail Flora. Zounds ! had it been Clarence 
Conway, who lay sick and wounded in her dwelling, what a dif- 
ference ! She’d have deigned him a glance before this ! She’d 
have sat beside his bed, and her hand would have been in his, 
and she would have played with his hair, and her long locks 
would have floated upon his cheek ! Damnation ! that fortune 
should thus smile upon one, and blast the other always ! Tlius 
has it been from our cradle. By heaven*, Gray, I tell you, that 
man — boy and man — ay, when he was but a brat of an infant 
— a squeaking, squalling, unconscious brat of an infant — this 
jilting Jezebel, called Fortune, showered her gold and jewels 


BAGATELLE BEFORE BUSINESS. 


899 


*oout him even then, and has clung to him ever since, with a 
constancy hardly ever known to any of her sex. All arouud 
seemed to toil in his behalf, everything tended to his benefit ; 
ay, even when I toiled in his despite, I have been compelled to 
curse the vain labor which redounded only to his good ! and I — ” 

“You’ve had your good fortune, too, captain !” said Gray, 
condolingly. 

“ Have 1 !” cried the other, dashing the mirror, upon which he 
had looked at that moment, into fragments at his feet ; “ have I, 
indeed ? I must read it in these gashes, then ! I must feel it 
in this feebleness; in these wounds which fetter my activity 
now, when safety, life, success, eyerything, depends upon my 
strength and freedom ! No, no ! Gray ; my good fortune is yet 
to come !” 

“Don’t distrust Fortune, captain. I’m thinking she’s ‘been 
your friend quite as much as his. She’s helped him in some 
things, perhaps ; but how is he any the better for them ? As 
for Miss Flora doing for him what she wouldn’t do for you, that’s 
all in my eye. I reckon that she looks on him now a little 
blacker than she ever looked, or ever will look, on you. Well, 
what next ? After all his fortunate gettings, where is he ? And 
after all your misfortunes, where are you? Why, he’s just on 
the brink of losing everything, and you are just that nigh to 
getting all that he loses, and perhaps a great deal more.” 

‘Would it were now! — would I were sure. But, Gray, I 
have my fears, my doubts. Past experience teaches me that 
good fortune is never more doubtful, than when it wears the 
sweetest and most promising countenance. We have to depend 
upon others. That is always the great drawback to a man’s 
chances. Should that fellow, Muggs, now fail us with his 
boats.” 

‘ Don’t you fear. He will not fail.” 

And Flora ! God ! could I be sure of that !” 

* And what’s toTiinder? The one answers for the other.” 

“Ay, not much to hinder, if we use violence. Main force 
tuny car^-y her off, and shall, unless she yields readily ; but I 
ieli you, Gray, I’d give half that I’m worth — half of all my 
spoils — but to be spared this one necessity.” 


100 


THE SCOUT. 


“ Wliat, captain, you’re not getting mealy-mouthed in the 
business. Your conscience ain’t troubling you, sure V* 

“ No ! It’s not that I have any scruples ; but 1 would enjoy 
the blessing of a willing prize, Gray ! That, that is every- 
thing !” 

“ Lord knows,” rejoined the other with a yawn, “ you had a 
willing prize enough in Mary Clarkson.” 

“ Speak not of her. Gray,” said the other in half-faltering 
accents — “ not now ! not now !’’ 

“ She was a willing prize, and one you were willing enough 
to get rid of. Give me the prize that don't consent in a hurry 
— that gives me some trouble to overcome. 1 wouldn’t give a 
shilling for a wagon-load of that fruit that drops into the mouth 
the moment it opens for it.” 

“ Nor I. Nor is that what I mean, Gray ; I mean only that 
I should like to forbear absolute violence. I do not object to 
the opposition or the difficulty, if I could win, by my own wit, 
wisdom, attractions — win through her sympathies, and not by 
strife. And I must still try for this. I wdll see Flora this 
very evening. I will get down to the supper-table. I am 
strong enough for it ; and I will see for myself how she manages 
this silly witling. The truth is, Gray, I’m not altogether satis- 
fied that she will feel that scorn for the fellow that w r e feel. 
We judge of a man according to his own manliness ; but this is 
not the mode of judging among women. They look at the 
streamers of the ship, and her gaudy paint ; while men look to 
see if her timbers are good ; if she follows the helm, if she is 
taut, and trim, and steady upon the wave. I believe that where 
it depends upon a woman’s heart — where her affections are 
firmly enlisted — she will he true to the death, and in spite of 
death ; but, when the matter is referable only to the judgment, 
I lose all confidence in her. She is then to be w atched nar- 
rowly, and guided cautiously, and kept from the breakers, 
among which she otherwise would be sure to run. Now r , Flora 
Middleton is a woman whose mind will take a large share in her 
affections. She’ll hardly suffer her feelings to get entirely be 
yond the control of her judgment j and it may be ' advisable 
that I should assist, at her next conference with this gudgeon in 


BAGATELLE BEFORE BUSINESS. 


4(h 


order to help him somewhat in the exposure of his more ridicu 
lous qualities. 

“ It don’t need, captain. 1 reckon she’s seen ’em all for her- 
self, long before this. You’d better not go down. Better keep 
all your strength *or the time when you’ll need it all.” 

“What! man'. Do you think I could fail then ? Impos- 
sible ! No ! no ! Gray. You’re getting quite too timid to be a 
safe counsellor, and I’m resolved to have a glance at Flora 
Middleton this evening, though I die for it. I think the sight 
of her will give me new strength and spirit. Besides, man, it is 
time that I should try my experiment upon her. If you are 
light — if she believes that Clarence Conway has been doing 
those evil deeds which I need not acknowledge, and has dismissed 
him for ever from her regards — then this is the very time to 
urge my claims and be successful. Personally, there is very 

little difference to the eye between us; unless these d d 

scars ! Ha ! didn’t you let her know that they were got fight- 
ing with Clarence in defence of injured innocence, and all that ! 
If so, they will not seem so very uncomely. There is yet an- 
other circumstance, Gray : I flatter myself that the contrast 
between myself and her present suitor, the surgeon, even in his 
dove-colored breeches, will hardly be against ine. Is not that 
something — are not all these things something ? If I can 'per- 
suade her, we diminish some of our labor, and ^several of our 
diinoulties ; and that must be tried first. I must play the lover 
as well as I can, before I play the conqueror. I must woo my 
bride, before I resort to the last mode of winning her.” 

*• You’d better keep your bed two days longer.” 

“ Pshaw ! get me some proper clothes. I wish I had the 
pick of the surgeon’s wardrobe, for, of a truth, Gray, I have 
but little choice of my own. I suspect my small clothes are of 
all colors, with the blood and dust of that last brush ; but, no 
matter about the stains here and there ; if you can only get me 
tolerably trim. I should rather be as unlike my popinjay rival 
as possible, on such an occasion.” 

The outlaw kept his resolution, in spite of all the exhortations 
of his comrade ; and that evening, surprised the family, and the 
surgeon, Hillliouse, not the least, by his sudden entry into the 
salle d manger , 


m 


i'HE SCOUT. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A ViSiu N. 

Edward Morton, could lie have always kept his blood u. 
abeyance, would have made a first-rate politician. He had 
superior cunning, but he had, at the same time, too much ear- 
nestness. He yielded himself quite too much up to his subject. 
He could not tamper and trifle with it. His impetuosity de- 
feated his caution ; and, in every respect in which lie failed, 
he could reproach himself only as the true cause of his failure. 
The stuff which he had expressed in conversation with Watson 
Gray, about the influence of fortune, did not deceive himself, 
lie knew better, whenever he permitted himself to think grave- 
ly, and speak honestly ; but men get into a habit of deceiving 
themselves while seeking to deceive others ; and fortune has 
always been compelled to bear the whining reproaches of man- 
kind whenever their own wits go a-blundering. Pride makes 
them unwilling to admit the fault to be in themselves, and for 
tune is a good-natured damsel, who seldom resents the imputa 
tions cast upon her. They clamor accordingly, and without 
fear, at her expense ; and grow familiar with the language of 
unprofitable and unintended declamation. It scarcely needs that 
we should remark how unfrequently they make acknowledg- 
ments of her bounty. When successful, it is their own excellent 
art, audacious courage, admirable skill, and manly accomplish- 
ment, that achieve the conquest ; and the smile which denotes 
their satisfaction with all the world, betrays first the gratifying 
conviction that they themselves are good against all the world. 

Edward Morton was by no means ignorant of his own defect 
of character. He knew his impetuosity of blood, and he feared 
it. It was necessary to guard particularly against that, in all 
his intercourse with Flora Middleton. Of this he had previous 
experience. He' knew her acuteness of intellect. The very 




A YISSTON". 


403 


simplicity of her own character, and the directness and almost 
masculine frankness of her temper, made it somewhat difficult to 
elude her analysis. Besides, she already suspected him. This lie 
knew. He had every reason to suppose, in addition, that the late 
close intercourse between herself and Clarence Conway, however 
brief, had enabled the latter to afford her some information of the 
true state of their mutual feelings and interests 

But, in due proportion with the small amount of knowledge which 
he possessed, -was the reasonable apprehension which he entertained 
of the extent of what she knew. She might know much or little. 
He had every reason to fancy that she knew all; and his chief hope lay 
in the fruitful falshoods which his wily coadjutor had taken occa- 
sion to plant within her mind. If these falshoods had taken root — 
if they flourished — perhaps the difficulty would not be great to make 
her doubt all the assertions of his brother. 

“If she believes him this villain — well ! She will believe more. 
She will believe that he has slandered me — nothing can be more 
natural — and if one task be well performed, it will not be hard to 
effect the other. But I must be wary. She is as keen-eyed as a 
hungry eagle — looks far and deep. One hasty word — one incau- 
tious look — and her sharp wit detects the error, and all must be be- 
gun anew. I must be cool now, or never. With everything at 
stake, I must school my blood into subjection, if, indeed, I have 
not already lost enough to make the pains-taking unnecessary.” 

Such were his thoughts, and such the hopes, upon which he 
founded his new purposes of deception. The surprise of all parties 
was great, and openly expressed, as he suddenly entered the supper- 
room. But the outlaw saw with pleasure that the surprise 
of the ladies did not seem coupled with any coldness or dis- 
satisfaction. It has not been necessary for us to say, before, 
that Mrs. Middleton had visted the invalid in his chamber. 
She had done all the duties of hospitality and humanity. He 
had accordingly no cause of complaint. He could have no rea- 
son to expect the like attendance from the young lady; and the gen- 
tle courtesy of the latter would have convinced one even more sus- 


4:04 


THE SCOUT. 


picious than Morton, that she had no hostile feeling whatsoev^i 
at work against him. 

The inquiries of both were kind and considerate. He was 
requested to occupy the sofa entirely, and to place himself at 
ease upon it ; a permission which had the effect of transferring 
the reluctant person of the surgeon to a contiguous chair. Tli-j 
deportment of this person had been productive of far more sur- 
prise to the ladies, than the appearance of the outlaw. Flora 
Middleton had informed her grandmother of the suit which she 
had rejected ; and it was, therefore, greatly to the wonder of the 
one, and the consternation of the other, that they were com- 
pelled to witness, in liis deportment, the language of confident 
assurance; — of a success and exultation, in tone and manner, 
as unequivocal as ever betrayed themselves in the action of a 
triumphant lover. His smirkings were not to be mistaken ; and 
the old lady looked to the young one, and the young one re- 
turned the glance with equal vexation and bewilderment. 

The arrival of Morton had the effect of bringing some relief 
to the females of the party, and possibly to diminish, in some 
degree, the impertinent self-complaisance of the surgeon. For 
this, the ladies were grateful to the outlaw ; and hence, perhaps, 
the greater benignity of the reception which they bestowed upon 
the latter. But still there was quite enough of pleased impu- 
dence manifest in the visage of Hillhouse, even after the com- 
ing of Morton ; and when the first courtesies which followed his 
entrance were fairly ended, he took occasion to say something 
on the subject to this happy person. 

“ Really, Mr. Hillhouse, I am surprised at the unusual degree 
of happiness which your countenance exhibits this evening. 
What is it makes you so peculiarly happy. Have you good 
news from the army ? Is his lordship about to relieve you. Ho 
you think of Charleston and the next Mescliianza ?” 

The surgeon simpered, smiled anew, and looked with most 
provoking empressement at Flora Middleton. Before he could 
frame the intricate and exquisite reply which he was meditating, 
that young lady availed herself of the occasion, to prove, as well 
she might, that she was no willing party to the peculiar happi- 
ness which his countenance expressed 


A VISION. 


405 


1 thank y~u for that question, Mr. Conway — I was about 
to make the same inquiry ; for, really, I never saw a gentleman 
put on so suddenly the appearance of so much joy. I fancied 
that Mr. Hillhouse must have had a fairy gift, as, you know, 
happens to us all in childhood ; and then again, I doubted, for 
there are reasons against such a notion. But, in truth, I knew 
not what to think, unless it be that it is surely no earthly joy 
which has produced, or could produce, so complete an expres- 
sion of delight in the human face. I declare, Mr. Hillhouse, I 
should be glad for mamma’s sake — if for the sake of no one 
else — that you would let us know what it is that makes you so 
supremely happy. There’s nothing pleases old people so much, 
you know, as the innocent pleasures of young ones,” 

“ Ah, Miss Flora, do you then ask ? It is, indeed, no earthly 
joy which has made me happy.” 

“ You are then really happy ?” said Conway. 

“ Really, and in truth, I may say so. A dream ” 

“ What ! and is it a dream only 1 Well, I thought as much,” 
exclaimed Flora. 

“ Nay, Miss Middleton, life itself, for that matter, is a sort of 
dream. But, in ordinary speech, mine is not a dream. I have 
had a vision ” 

“A vision!” exclaimed Conway. 

“A vision, sir !” said the old lady, putting on her spectacles, 
and looking around the room. 

“ A vision ! Do you see it now, Mr. Hillhouse ? Where ? 
What was it like ?” The demand of Flora was made with all 
the girlish eagerness of one who really believed in the prophetic 
faculty of the present seer. 

“Yes, what was ib like, Mr. Hillhouse ?” asked the outlaw. “ I 
am very curious to hear ! a vision !” 

“Like!” exclaimed the surgeon, “like! like an opening of 
heaven upon me. A sudden revelation of delight, a cloud of 
glory • and the shape within was that of — a woman !” 

“Dear me! — only a woman!” exclaimed Morton, affectedly. 

“Only a woman, sir!” cried the surgeon, with an air of pro- 
foundest gallantry ; “ and what lovelier object can one see in 
this visible creation — upon the mrtb or in the sky ” 


406 


THE SCOUT. 


“ Or the waters under the earth.” 

“ Nay, I’m not so deep in the world, Mr. Conway,” said the 
surgeon ; “ but when you ejaculate in wonder, sir, because my 
vision of unspeakable delight takes the shape of a young and 
beautiful woman ” 

“What’s the color of her eyes — and hair, Mr. Hillhouse?” 
was the interruption of Conway. “ Give us now a just descrip- 
tion, that we may judge for ourselves what sort of taste you 
have in matters of beauty.” 

Hillhouse looked to Flora Middleton with an expression 
which said, as plainly as a look could say — “ Behold with me ! 
The vision is again before us!” 

Flora Middleton rose from her chair. She seemed to antici- 
pate the words ; and the scorn and vexation which overspread 
her features, became evident to all persons in the room, except, 
perhaps, the single obtuse individual who had provoked them. 
She was about to leave the apartment, when the sudden and 
hurried words of Edward Morton arrested her, with a new occa- 
sion of wonder, more legitimate than that which the surgeor 
entertained. 

“ By heavens, Mr. Hillhouse, I too have a vision, and one fa? 
less lovely, I think, than yours. Pray, look to that door, if you 
please. There was a strange visage at it but a moment ago 
Look ! look ! — a man, not a woman ; and one not from heaven 
1 should think, though it may be ” 

Before the surgeon could reach the door, or Morton could fin* 
ish the sentence, a dark figure entered the room, confronted the 
party, and taking from his face a black mask, with which it was 
covered displayed to the anxious gaze of the outlaw his own late 
lieutenant, and always bitter enemy, Captain Stockton. The 
latter had heard what Morton said, and concluded his speech 
perhaps, in the most fitting manner. 

“ From hell, you would say, would you ! and you are right, 
sir. I came from hell, and I am come for you. You are pre- 
pared for travel, I trust !” 

The behavior of Morton was equally fearless and dignified. 
He had a game to play in the eyes of Flora, and a difficult part 
to act in more eyes than hers. His agitation had not been con 


A VISION. 


407 


cealed, at the first sudden exhibition which Stockton had made 
of his hostile visage at the entrance ; hut, when the person of 
the intruder was no longer doubtful, his firmness came back to 
him ; and no person, on the verge of the precipice, could have 
looked down witjj. more indifference than he, upon its awful 
abysses. He raised himself with composure from the sofa, and 
directing the eyes of Stockton to the ladies, calmly remarked — 

“ Whatever you may be, and whatever your purpose, as a 
man, remember where you are, and be civil to the ladies.” 

He was answered by a grin, and yell of mingled exultation 
and malice. 

“ Ay ! ay ! I will remember. Don’t suppose I shall ever for- 
get them, or yourself, or even that pink-looking gentleman in 
the corner, who smells so sweetly, and looks so frightened. Ha ! 
ha ! Did you ever know the devil to forget any of his flock. 
Ladies, you know me, or you should. You will know me soon 
enough. I am old Nick, himself, you may be sure of that, 
though I go by several names. My most innocent one is per- 
haps the most familiar to you. I am the captain of the Black 
Riders. Do you deny that V ’ he demanded, at the close, turning 
full upon Edward Morton. 

It did not need that the latter should answer this inquiry, for 
the alarm which this bold annunciation produced, prevented his 
words from being heard by any ears but those of the intruder. 

“You may be the devil himself, for anything I know or 
care.” 

“ Indeed ! you are bold. But we shall see. You will find me 
a worse person to deal with, perhaps. You are my prisoner : 
remember that.” 

“I know not that!” exclaimed Morton, rising with evident 
pain from the sofa, upon which he had sunk but a minute before, 
and looking the defiance which he had no means to enforce. 
His attitude was, however, threatening ; and drawing a pistol 
from his belt, the intruding outlaw levelled it full at the head of 
his superior. The eye of Morton did not shrink. His gaze 
was undaunted. Not a muscle of his face was discomposed. At 
that instant Watson Gray suddenly entered the apartment, 
strode between them, and confronted Stockton with a weapon 


m 


THE SCOUT. 


like bis own. At the same time be tlirust another into the 
bands of Morton. 

“ There are two to play at this game, Stockton^” was the cool 
remark of Gray. “Ladies, leave the room, if you please. We 
need no witnesses: and you, sir, unless you .can kill as well as 
cure, you may as well follow the ladies.” 

This was addressed to the surgeon. 

“ I have no weapon,” was bis answer. 

“ Pshaw ! look to the fireplace. A brave man never wants a 
weapon.” 

Hillliouse possessed himself of the poker with sufficient reso- 
lution ; but he evidently looked with great dissatisfaction upon 
the prospect before him, of soiling his dove-colored suit in an 
unexpected melee. Meanwhile the ladies had disappeared, and 
the only social influence which might have prevented bloodshed 
was necessarily removed in their departure. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A PARLEY. 

“What does all this mean, Stockton?” demanded Gray. 

“ What you see. The meaning’s plain enough, Watson Gray,” 
was the insolent reply. 

“ Ay, I see well enough that you are disposed to murder your 
superior ; but on what pretence ? How will you answer to 
Lord Rawdon for this insubordination — this mutiny ? for it is no 
less. Captain Morton has the commission of Sir Henry Clinton, 
lie is your commander.” 

“ Yes, but he is the property of the troop, also.” 

“ Well, what then — suppose we allow that?” 

“ That is enough. He is a traitor to them.” 

M Ha ! — a traitor !” 

“Yes! a base, dishonest traitor.” 

• How ? in what way is he a traitor ?* 


A PARLEY. 


409 


A He is sworn to be true to them.” 

“Well — if to be mangled in their battles is to be tme to 
them, lie certainly has been true a long time.” 

“Mangled in Mm* battles!” quoth the other, with a sneer. 
‘ Mangled in his own. Had he been fighting their battles, with 
less regard to his own, he would have escaped his mangling. 
‘Tell that to the marines.’ We know better. Wo know that 
he is a traitor to his comrades. He has sold them for a price, 
and has abandoned them to their enemies. His life is forfeit by 
his own laws.” 

“ This is a mere fetch, Stockton. There is no ground for 
such pretence. You are the enemy of Captain Morton. We 
all know that of old. You are contriving it against him to 
destroy him. Beware ! You know me quite as well as I know 
you. I tell you, that if you go one inch on either hand from 
the right, your neck stretches on the gallows in the sight of ali 
Charleston !” 

“ Pshaw ! Watson Gray. You don’t hope to frighten me at 
this time of day with your big words. I know what I’m about. 
Captain Morton is a traitor to the troop, and we’ll prove it. He 
is false to his oath, and will be made to answer all its penalties.” 

“ That’s well enough ; but what gives you the right, till the 
thing’s proved, to lift pistol to his head?” 

“ The thing’s proved already.” 

“ What 1 without a trial ?” 

“We’ve two witnesses against him.” 

“ Where are they ? We'll hear them — not you. You are a 
little too fast.” 

“ You shall hear them both. You shall hear me too. I am 
now the captain of the troop. They have made me so by their 
free voices. He is nothing, now, but one of us — a common 
soldier, under suspicion, and waiting for his sentence.” 

“ Look you, Stockton : I’m better used to acting than talking. 
I know you of old, and I see you’re bent to kill your captain, 
whether or no. Y T ou’re hungering to step into his ohoes : but 
the moment you pull trigger on him, that moment I pull trigger 
on y ou. There’s two to one. Take your chance now* for life; 
for I’m getting angry.” 


410 


THE SCOUT. 


“ Two to one, indeed ! Look at the windows, man, and you’ll 
see twenty to one,” was the triumphant response of Stockton. 

Gray looked as he was hidden, so did the surgeon Hillhouse, 
but Morton kept his eyes fixed upon those of his lieutenant. 

“Well, do you see? are you satisfied? There is no chance 
for you,” said the latter. 

“I see only what I expected to see,” was the answer of 
Gray. “ I did not look to see you venture here without good 
backing. I knew you too well for that. These twenty men 
are enough to eat us up. But, before you can get help from 
them, we’ll make mince-meat of you. You are a fool if you 
think otherwise.” 

Stockton looked upon his destined victim with equal rage and 
disappointment. 

“ What ! you refuse, then, to surrender him to me ?” 

“ We do.” 

“ Well, we shall see what we can do with a few more pistols,” 
replied the ruffian, and with these words he prepared to leave 
the room. But Gray placed himself between him and the 
entrance. 

“Stay,” said lie- — “not so fast. Youve got into the cane 
brake with the hear. You must ask permission when you waul 
to leave it.” 

“ What ! do you mean to keep me ?” 

“Yes; you shall be a hostage for the rest. We must hav« 
terms between us, Richard Stockton, before we let you off.” 

“ What terms ?” demanded the other, angrily. 

• Where’s our guard?” 

“ Fastened up in the loghouse, where they’re all drunk.” 

“They must be released ; and you must answer to Lord Raw- 
don for making his soldiers drunk and incapable, while on duty 
at a British military post.” 

“ Who says I made them drunk ?” 

“ I say so.” 

“ You can not prove it.” 

“ You shall see. If I can prove that one of your troopers 
lid it, it will be necessary for you to show that you did not 
employ that trooper in doing it ” 


A PARLEY. 


41 


44 Watson Gray, I will have satisfaction out of vou for this.” 

“ All in good time, Stockton. You don’t suppose that I’m 
likely to dodge from a difficulty with you or any man ? But it’s 
useless for you to ride your high horse across my path. By tire 
Eternal, man. I’ll tilt you into the ditch in the twinkle of a 
mosquito !” 

“You talk boldly; but let me tell you that you’re not alto* 
g ether safe from this charge against Morton. You’re suspected 
>f treason to the troop, as well as he.” 

“Tsha, tsha, tslia ! Catch old birds with chaff! Look you, 
Stockton : don’t you suppose you can carry this matter as you 
please, either by scare or shot. We’re up to you any how. 
Now, look you : if you think that either Captain Morton or 
myself wants to escape from trial, you’re mistaken. But we’ll 
have a fair trial, or none at all.” 

“ Well, won’t we give him a fair trial ?” 

“ No : not if you begin it with the pistol.” 

“ I only want to make him a prisoner.” 

“ Well, you sha’n’t have your wishes in that — not while I 
can stand ready with such a muzzle as this close upon yours. 
Now, hear me. Give orders to Ensign Darcy, whose little eyes 
I see dancing at that glass there, and who’s at the bottom of all 
your mischief — give him orders to let our men loose from the 
loghouse, and send them here ; and, in the mean time, let him 
draw his own men off from the house. When that’s done, we’ll 
come to terms about the trial.” 

“ Agreed,” said the other, and he made a new movement as 
if to take his departure, but the wily Gray was still on the 
alert. 

“ No ! no ! — my good fellow ! — You must stay as a hostage- 
‘ieutenant, ’til the matter’s all arranged. You can speak to 
Darcy from where you stand— through the pane as well as if 
your arm was round his neck.” 

The vexation of Stockton may be imagined. Ho sti.»ve vain- 
ly to suppress it. He was compelled to submit. Darcy was 
summoned, and would have entered, with his men lolloping, but 
Watson Gray’s prompt accents warned him, that, if he came 
not alone, he would bring down on (he head of his confederate 


THE SCOUT. 


UV 

the outlets of himself and Morton. Sharing the chagrin of his 
superior, Darcy, accordingly, made his appearance alone, and 
received his instructions. 

When he had drawn off his followers, and disappeared him 
self, Gray persuaded Morton to retire to his chamber with the 
assistance of the surgeon. This measure had, perhaps, become 
absolutely necessary to the former. The efforts which he 1ml 
mad A to sustain himself, as well in the interview with the ladies, 
as in that .unexpected one which followed it; — and the excite- 
ment which the latter necessarily occasioned, had nearly ex 
ha usted him. Nothing but the moral stimulus derived from his 
mind — its hate, scorn, defiance — sustained him so far from faint- 
ing on the spot ; and this support did not maintain him much 
longer. He did faint when he reached his own apartment. 

“ And now, Stockton,” said Gray, when they were alone to- 
gether — “what’s all this d — d nonsense stuff about Captain 
Morton’s treachery and mine ? Out with it, man, that we may 
know the game.” 

“ No nonsense stuff, I assure you. The proof is strong 
enough against him, and brushes your skirts also.” 

“ Proof indeed. You see, I don't stop to let you know, lieu 
tenant, that I look upon you as a man that will contrive, wher- 
ever you can, against the captain. I know that you hate him 
— you can’t deny it, — though it’s the strangest thing to me why 
you should hate a man who has never given you any cause for 
hate, and has always treated you well and kindly.” 

“Indeed! Do you really think so!” e*xclaimed the other 
bitterly. “Well, I shall understand, that, to knock a man over 
with the butt of your pistol, and send him afterward under 
guard to prison, with a recommendation for the halbirds, is a 
way to treat well and kindly.” 

* Pshaw ! Is that all ?” 

411 ! ay, and enough too !” 

“ My good fellow, you ought to be grateful that he didn’t set 
you a swinging from the first tree. I heard of that affair, and 
was serry for it; but you deserved all you got, and something 
more. He might have liung you without trial, or shot you down 
where you stood. You were in absolute mutiny * 


A PARLE?. 


113 


4t We’ll say no more about that, Watson Gray. He’s had his 
chance, and I’ll have mine. So far from it’s being nonsense 
stuff which is against him, the proof of his treachery is clear as 
noonday.” 

“ Well, prove it, and he must stand his fate. All he asks, 
and all that I ask, is a fair trial. But what is the sort of treach- 
ery that lie’s been doing ?” 

“ Making arrangements to fly and leave the troop in the lurch. 
Getting boats to carry off the plate and negroes from Middleton 
barony and other places, without letting the troop come tc a 
share. You can’t deny that’s death by our laws — rope and 
bullet !” 

“ Granted : but, again, I ask you, where’s the proof V* 

“ Brydone ! — Ha! you start, do you? You didn’t expect 
that 1” 

“ Start! — a man may well start at hearing of such a false- 
hood from the lips of a fellow like Brydone, who was always 
counted one of the truest fellows we ever had.” 

“ Yes ; you didn’t think he’d desert you, eh ?” 

“Desert! — Look you, Stockton, I don’t believe that Bry- 
done ever said such a word. Did you hear him yourself?” 

“ Yes— I did.” 

“ Where is he ? Bring him before me.” 

“ Time enough. He’s not here with us at present. But he’ll 
be here sooner than you wish.” 

“Ah !” — and the scout paused, while his brow gathered into 
deep, dark folds which indicated the pressure of accumulating 
thoughts. He suddenly recovered his composure, and turning, 
with a quiet smile upon his more blunt companion, he pro- 
ceeded : — 

“ Stockton, I see your game. I need not tell you that I am 
now convinced that you have no such proof, and that Brydone 
never told you anything hurtful to the captain. If so, didn’t 
you know that he was to have a fair trial? — Why didn’t you 
bring your only witness ? and did not you also know, that, by 
the Jaws, no one could be found guilty but by two witnesses? 
Now, you only speak of one ” 

‘ Ay, ay ! but there’s another, Watson Gray. Don’t suppose 


414 


THK SCOUT. 


1 got so far ahead of common sense in this business as to 
hie in that matter. No ! no ! I hate Ned Morton too much — 
too thoroughly and bitterly — to leave my desire for revenge to 
a doubtful chance. The whole matter was cut and dry before 
we came down from ‘ Ninety-Six.’ We have two witnesses of 
his guilt.” 

“Well, who’s the other?” asked Gray with seeming indiffer- 
ence. 

“ Isaac Muggs !” 

“ What Isaac, the one-armed ! But you don’t call him a man, 
surely — lie’s only part of a man !” 

“ You don’t mean to stand for such an argument as that?” 
demanded Stockton gravely. 

“ Oh, no !” responded the other with a laugh. “ Let him go 

for what he’s worth. But ” — here his indifference of man 

ner seemed to increase, as, yawning, he inquired — 

“ But when are these witnesses to be here ? When may we 
confront them ?” 

“ Sooner than you wish,” was the reply. “We look for Bry • 
done to-morrow, by the dawn ; and as for Isaac Muggs, we ex- 
pect to catch him very soon after, if not before. We hope to 
be in readiness along the river banks, to see whether he brings 
up the boats which are fit to carry such a valuable cargo, as 
you’ve got ready here to put in them.” 

“ Ah ! — so you’ve got the Congaree under guard, have you ?’* 
demanded the other with the same seeming indifference o! 
manner. 

“ It will be somewhat difficult for him to find you without 
irst finding us” replied Stockton with a chuckling sort of tri- 
imph. 

“ So much for Isaac, then. I suppose he brings Brydone 
along with him ?” was the carelessly expressed inquiry of Gray. 

“ No ! no ! lie will be more certain to arrive, and comes more 
willingly. Rawdon despatched nim below with a letter to Colo- 
nel Stewart, at Fairlawn, and he will be here too soon for your 
liking. He comes by the road. J)o not think we ventured up- 
on this business without preparation. We made nice calcula- 
tions and timed everything to the proper moment. Brydone 


A PARLEY. 


415 


sleeps to-night at Martin’s tavern, so we may expect him here 
by sunrise. We’ll he ready, at all events, for the trial by 
twelve o’clock to-morrow. At. least we can take his testimony 
and wait for Muggs. But I calculate on both before that time.’ , 

Watson Gray seemed for a moment lost in thought. His 
dark bushy brows were bent down almost to the concealment of 
his eyes. 

u It seems to worry you !” said Stockton with a sneer. 

“ Worry me ! No ! no ! Stockton, you’re only worrying your- 
self. I was thinking of a very different matter,” replied the 
other with a good-natured smile. 

“ Well, do you say that you’ll be ready for the trial then 1 ?” 

“We’re read) now ; ready always for fair play. But you 
must draw off your troop.” 

“ Very well. I have no objection to that, for I can draw ’em 
on again at a moment’s warning. If you don’t keep faith you’ll 
sweat for it. I’m agreed to anything that don’t prevent the 
trial. Where shall it be — here?” 

“ Here ! Oh, no ! To have your sixty men rushing upon us 
at close muzzle-quarters ! No, no ! We’ll have it in the woods, 
near the river, where my half-score of muskets may be covered 
by the trees, and be something of a match for your troop. Be 
sides, the women, you know !” 

“ Well, I’m willing. There’s a clayey bluff just above, facing 
the river-bend.. There’s something of an opening, and I reckon 
it’s a sort of graveyard. I see a new grave there and a cross 
upon it. Let the trial be there.” 

“ A new grave and a cross upon it !” mused the other. “That 
must be Mary Clarkson’s grave ; but the cross I Ah ! perhaps 
Miss Flora had that done. She’s a good girl! Well, I’m 
agreed. Let it be there — just at the turning of the sun at noon.” 

“ Keep your word, Gray, and the worst enemy of Ned Mor- 
ton ” 

“ Yourself!” 

“ The same ! His worst enemy can ask nothing more. If 
ws don’t convict him ” 

“You’ll swallow the Oougarce !” 


416 


THE SCOUT. 


and I know that Ned Morton will be in no humor to laugh, un 
less he does so because he likes dancing in air much better than 
most people.” 

“ Well, well, Stockton; we shall soon see enough. To-mor- 
row’s never a day far off, and here comes Darcy to relieve you. 
But as for your hanging Ned Morton, why, man, your own troop 
will hardly suffer it.” 

“ Ha ! will they not 'l Is that your hope V ’ said Stockton, 
with an exulting sneer. 

“ Perhaps !” replied the the other, with a smile. 

The entrance of Darcy arrested the conference. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A WITNESS SILENCED. 

The business of the two had reached its close before the 
return of Darcy with the British guard which he had released. 
Some other matters were adjusted between them, and Lieuten- 
ant Stockton was at length permitted to depart, while Watson 
Gray, at the same moment, received from Darcy the still half 
drunken* soldiery. It may be supposed that neither Stockton 
nor Darcy was altogether so well satisfied with the result of 
their expedition. The game was fairly in their hands ; but the 
precipitation of Stockton, arising from a too great feeling of 
security, hnd a desire to exult over his threatened victim, led to 
that exposure of his own person of which Watson Gray so read- 
ily availed himself. The reproaches of the subordinate were not 
spared. 

“ But it comes to the same thing,” said Stockton. “ He is 
ctili ours. He is pledged to appear at the trial.” 

“ Ay, but suppose he does not come V’ 

“Then the delay follows, and no worse evil. We have men 
enough, surely, to pull the old house about his ears.” 


A WITNESS SILENCED. 417 

“ With tlie loss of half of them ! A deal bargain,” replied 
She dissatisfied lieutenant. 

Not so bad either. We can starve them out in three days. 
But there’s no fear that Gray will not keep his word. They 
will come to the trial. They flatter themselves that we shall 
see nothing of Isaac Muggs, whom they’ve sent away, and I 
told them of no other witness than Brydone. I said nothing of 
that skulk, Joe Tanner. He and Brydone are enough, and 
knowing the absence of Muggs, they’ll come boldly on the 
ground, and walk headlong into the trap we’ve set for them.” 

“ It’s well you’ve had that caution, Stockton ; for, of a truth, 
you have so far played your cards most rashly. We’ve got 
desperate men to deal with, and that Watson Gray has got more 
sense in one little finger than you carry in your whole body.” 

“ That’s not so civil, Mr. Darcy.” 

“No ! but it’s true ; and when you’re trifling with the game 
of both of us, it’s necessary to jerk you up suddenly with a sharp 
truth now and then, by way of a curb to your paces. There’s 
another matter that your proceeding has spoiled, Stockton.” 

“ What was that ?” 

“ The gutting of the house.” 

“ Oh ! that follows, of course. 

“ A bird in the hand, you know. They may have time now 
to hide away the valuables.” 

“ It will be a close hole that our boys can’t creep into. 
Where they’ve gone we can follow. But there’s no doubt, 
Darcy, that I've given up one chance which befriended us. It’s 
only putting cff for to-morrow what might have been done to- 
day. Our appetite will be only to much the keenor for the 
delay. Did you see Miss Middleton ?” 

“Ay — did I not !” replied Darcy. “Look you, Stockton, I 
stipulate for her . You must not think to swallow all — rank, 
revenge, riches — and still yearn for beauty. She must go to 
my share of the booty.” 

“Yours! Pooh, Darcy! what should give you an amorous 
tooth? Don’t think of. it, my good fellow. I’ve set my mind 
upon her. It’s a part of my revenge. She’s the. game that’s 
♦timed Nod Morton ’s head — it was u: disgrace Mm before her 


118 


THE SCOUT. 


that made me blunder — and unlesf I show him that, slie, too, is 
at rny mercy, my triumph will be only half complete.” 

Darcy muttered something about the “ lion’s share,” and his 
muttering reminded Stockton that he was too valuable an assist- 
ant to be trifled with. 

“ Pshaw !” he exclaimed, “ let us not squabble about a woman. 

I don’t care a shilling about her. But she’s common stock, you 
know. It must be according to the will of the troop.” 

We forbear listening to other heads of their private arrange- 
ments. They proceeded to rejoin their men and to see about 
the disposition of their sentinels, in secrecy, along the banks of 
the river, wherever they thought it probable that a boat could 
effect a landing. They did not bestow a very close watch along 
the land side, or in the immediate neighborhood of the house, foi 
they well knew that Morton could not escape, in his present 
condition of feebleness, by any but a water conveyance. Ho 
was their chief object, and they regarded his fate as now una- 
voidable. 

The safety of the landlord, Muggs, it has been already seen, 
was secured by the persevering and sleepless efforts of his new 
comrade, John Bannister. When the latter had swam the river, 
and joined him on the other side, the two laid themselves quietly 
down to sleep in a place of security, having resolved to get up 
at an early hour, before dawn, and, urging their boat up stream 
with united paddles, keep on the same side of the river until 
they could, without detection, cross to that on which the enemy 
lay. Their aim was to reach a point above the usual landing 
places of the barony, and out of the reach, accordingly, of the 
line of sentinels, each of which John Bannister had beheld when 
he was placed. 

The worthy scout was resolved to do all that he might, at any 
risk, for the safety of Flora, and for her rescue from the ruthless 
villains by whom her house was surrounded. He did not con- 
jecture the state of affairs between the former captain of the 
Black Itidcrs and his troop ; and did not fancy that there was 
any cause of apprehension for the fate of Edward Conway, 
though such a conviction would have given him but little un- 
eaftDess. 


A WITNESS SILENCED 


419 


At the appointed hour lie awakened his companion, struck a 
light, reloaded his r.fle, the flint of which he carefully examined ; 
and, having put himself and Muggs in as good condition for a 
conflict as possible, he shoved his canoe up the stream. 

The work was hard, but they achieved it. They plied their 
paddles vigorously, until they were enabled, with the help of 
the current, to round the jutting headland where slept the re- 
mains of Mary Clarkson. They had scarcely pulled into shore 
s when they were startled by the sudden rising of a human figure 
from the earth, out of the bosom of which, and almost at their 
feet, he seemed to emerge. Bannister pushed back from the 
shore, but the friendly voice of Jake Clarkson reassured him. 
He had effected his escape, in the general drunkenness of the 
soldiery, though how that had been brought about, lie could tell 
but little. Those who had drugged their cups, had evidently 
confounded him with the rest, for they furnished him with a 
portion of the potent beverage also. Of this he drank nothing, 
and the consequence of his sobriety was his successful effort at 
escape. In the darkness, he had been enabled to feel his way 
to the spot where his daughter slept. 

He could give no further explanation ; nor did Bannister an- 
noy him on the subject. He was content with the acquisition 
of a stout fellow, whose aim was deadly, and who had contrived 
to secure his rifle from loss in all his several mischances. This, 
he still carried upon his arm, and Bannister contented himself 
with instructing him to get it in readiness. 

“See to the flint and priming, daddy Jake, for the time’s 
a-coming when I wouldn’t have you miss fire for the best pole- 
boat on the Congaree.” 

If there was toil among these honest fellows, and among the 
outlaws in the neighborhood of whose camp they were hoveling, 
there was toil and anxiety also in the dwelling, to which, though 
with different feelings, the eyes of both these parties were di- 
rected. Sleepless and prayerful were the hours which the fair 
ladies of the mansion passed after that wild and fearful inter- 
ruption which they experienced in the progress of the evening 
meal. But, in the chamber of Edward Morton, a more stem 
and immovable sentiment of apprehension prevailed to increase 


420 


THE SCOUT. 


tlie gloom of his midnight watch, and to darken the aspect! of 
the two who sat there in solemn conference. 

Watson Gray, though he naturally strove to infuse a feeling 
of confidence into the mind of his superior, could not, neverthe- 
less, entirely divest his thoughts of the sombre tinge which they 
necessarily took from his feelings, in considering the events 
which the coming day was to bring forth. There was some- 
thing excessively humbling to a man like Edward Morton, in 
the idea of ever being tried for treachery by those whom he had 
so often led ; — and to be placed for judgment before one whom 
he so heartily despised as Stockton, was no small part of the 
annoyance. The assurances which Watson Gray gave him did 
not touch this part of his disquietude. The simple assurance 01 
his ultimate release could not materially lessen the pang which 
he felt at what he conceived to be the disgrace of such a 
situation. 

“ Life or death, Gray,” he said, “ is after all a trifling matter. 
I have the one here,” touching the hilt of a dirk which he had 
just placed within his bosom, “ or here,” and his fingers rested 
on the handle of the pistol which lay beside him on the bed. 

“Either of these will secure me from the indignity which this 
base scoundrel would delight to fasten upon me ; and, as for 
life, I believe I love it no more than any other soldier who 
knows the condition of the game he plays and the value of the 
stake he lays down. But, to be hauled up and called to an- 
swer to such a scamp, for such a crime, is, really, a most shock- 
ing necessity. Can’t we mend the matter no way 1 Can’t we 
tamper with some of the men 1 There are a few whom you 
could manage. There’s Butts, both the May bins, Joe Sutton, 
Peters, and half a dozen more that were always devoted to me, 
though, perhaps, among the more timid of the herd. If you 
could manage these ; if you could persuade them to join us here , 
with your bull-head British allies, we should be able to make 
fight, and finish the ^copartnership in that manlier way. By 
Heaven, I’m stirred up with the notion ! You must try it ! I 
shall be strong enough for anything when the time comes ; and 
I feel, that in actual conflict with that villain Stockton, I could 
not help but hew him to pieces. Bring us to this point, Gray ! 


A WITNESS SILENCED. 


421 


Work, work, man, if you love me ! If your wits sleep, wake 
them. Now or never ! Let them save me from this d — nable 
situation and bitter shame.” 

The confederate shook his head despondingly. 

“ No doubt ii we could get at these fellows, or any half dozer 
iu the troop, they might be bought over or persuaded in some 
way to desert to us ; but do you not see that the difficulty is in 
getting at them? Were I to venture among them, I should be 
served just as I served Stockton to-night. I should be ham- 
pered hand and foot, with no such chance of making terms of 
escape as he had. No, captain, I see no way to avoid the trial. 
You must make up your mind to that. But I don’t see that 
you will have anything more to apprehend. Muggs is out of the 
way, and won’t be back in three days. He’s safe. One wit- 
ness is not enough, and as for Brydone — ” 

“ D — n him ! D — n him ! The double-dyed traitor ! And 
he was paid so well too !” 

“That was the mistake, I’m thinking. He got too much for 
that last business. He considered it the last job that you’d 
ever give him, and he immediately cast about for a new em- 
ployer. He’s got him, but I do not think he’ll keep him long.” 

“ May they cut each other’s throats !” was the devout prayer 
of the outlaw, to which Gray responded with a deliberate 

“Amen!” 

What was further said between the two that night, was of the 
same temper and concerned the same business. Their hopes 
and fears, plans and purposes, so far as Watson Gray deemed 
it essential that his principal should know them, underwent, as 
it was natural they should, a prolonged examination. But Gray 
felt that the outlaw would need all his strength for whatever 
events might follow, and determined, therefore, upon leaving 
him to repose. Besides, he had some schemes working in his 
mind, which he did not declare to his principal, and which it 
was necessary that he should discuss entirely to himself. 

He had already taken care that his score of men, by this time 
quite sobered, should be strictly cautioned on the subject of their 
watch for the night, and so placed, within the dwelling, as to baffle 
any attempt at surprise or assault from without. The soldiers 


THE SCOUT. 


did not now need much exhortation to vigilance. They had 
already had some taste of the fruits of misbehavior, as in their 
beastly incapability of resentment, the outlaws had amused 
themselves with a rough pastime at their expense, in which 
cuffs and kicks were the most gentle courtesies to which the 
victims were subjected. 

Having exhorted them, with every possible counsel and argu- 
ment, Gray summoned the surgeon, ILillhouse, to a brief confer- 
ence, and assigued to him certain duties of the watch also. 
Though a frivolous, foolish person, he was temperate, and the 
chief object of Gray was to keep the soldiers from any excess 
during an absence which, it seems, he meditated, but which he 
did not declare to them, or to his associate, Morton. It was only 
necessary to intimate to Mr. Hillhouse what havoc the Black 
Riders would make if they could once lay hands upon his varie- 
gated wardrobe, to secure all the future vigilance of that gen- 
tleman. 

All matters being arranged to his satisfaction, Gray stole forth 
at midnight from the mansion, none knowing and none suspect- 
ing his departure ; and, with the practised arts of a veteran scout, 
he contrived to take from the stables the fleetest horse which 
they contained. Him he led, as quietly as he could, into the 
woods which lay to the west, and remote equally from the en- 
campment and sentinels of the Black Riders. Their watch was 
maintained with strictness, but only on the river side ; and, un- 
interrupted, Gray soon succeeded in placing himself in full cover 
of the forests, and out of the neighborhood of the enemy’s sen- 
tinels. He kept within the cover of the woods only so long as 
sufficed for safety ; then, hurrying into the main road, he pur- 
sued his way down the country, at a rapid canter. 

The object of Watson Gray, in part, may be conjectured, by 
a recurrence to that portion of the dialogue which he had with 
Stockton, in which the latter accounted for the absence of Bry- 
done, the most important witness whom he could array against 
the fidelity of Captain Morton. He determined to go forth, 
meet Brydone, and bribe, or dissuade him from his meditated 
treachery. He had, if the reader will remember, wormed out 
of the less acute and subtle Stockton, the cause of Bry done’s ah- 


A WITNESS STf.ENTEP. 


423 


^c.nco ; the route which he would take, and the probable tim*» 
ot his arrival in the morning. To keep him back from the ap 
preaching trial he believed to be more important than he allowed 
to appear to Morton. He knew that their enemies would not 
be able to secure the testimony of Muggs, the landlord, within 
the allotted time, even if they succeeded, finally, in securing liis 
person; — and he did not doubt that Stockton was prepared 
with some other witness, of whom he said nothing, in order the 
more effectually to delude the defendant into the field. This 
was, indeed, the case, as we have already seen from the confer- 
ence between Stockton and his more subtle confederate, Darcy. 

“At all events,” soliloquized the scout, “at all events, it will 
be the safe policy to keep Brydone out of the way. I must 
send him on another journey. He sleeps at Martin’s tavern. 
Let me see ; — Martin’s is but fourteen miles. He can ride that 
at a dog-trot in three hours. He will probably start at day- 
light, and calculate to take his breakfast at the barony. That 
is Stockton’s calculation. I must baffle him. Brydone must put 
off* eating that breakfast.” 

Watson Gray did not continue his horse at the same pace at 
which he started. lie drew up, after the first five miles, and 
suffered him to trot and walk alternately. He had not gone 
more than seven, when day broke upon the forests, and the keen 
eyes of the scout were then set to their best uses, as he sur- 
veyed the road upon which he travelled. By the time the sun 
rose he had gone quite as far as he intended. It was not a part 
of his policy to be seen at Martin’s tavern; or seen at all, by 
any one, who might reveal the fact hereafter that he had gone 
upon the same road over which Brydone was expected. 

No man was better able to foresee, and provide against all 
contingencies, than Watson Gray. His every step was the re- 
sult of a close calculation of its probable effects for good and 
evil. He quietly turned , into the woods, when he had reached 
a thicket which promised him sufficient concealment for his pur- 
poses. Here lie re-examined his pistols, which were loaded, 
each, with a brace of bullets. He stirred the priming with his 
finger, rasped the flints slightly with the horn handle of his 
knife, and adjusted the weapons in his belt for convenient use. 


424 


THE SCOUT. 


He did not dismount from liis saddle, but took care to place him. 
self in such a position, on the upper edge of the thicket, as to 
remain unseen from below ; while, at the same time, the path 
was so unobstructed from above as to permit him to emerge 
suddenly, without obstruction from the undergrowth, at any mo- 
ment, into the main track. 

In this position he was compelled to wait something longer 
Ilian he had expected. But Watson Gray, in the way of busi- 
ness, was as patient as the grave. He was never troubled with 
that fidgety peevishness which afflicts small people, and puts 
them into a fever, unless the winds rise from the right quarter 
at the very moment when they are desired to blow. He could 
wait, not only without complaint or querulousness ; but he pre- 
pared himself to wait, just as certainly as to ‘perform. To suf- 
fer and to endure, he had sufficient common sense philosophy to 
perceive, was equally the allotment of life. 

His patience was sufficiently tested on the present occasion 
He waited fully two hours, and with no greater sign of discon- 
tent, than could be conjectured from his occasionally transferring 
his right and then his left leg from the stirrup to the pommel of 
his saddle, simply to rest the members, as they happened to be 
more or less stiffened by the want of exercise. All the while, 
his eyes keenly pierced the thicket below him, and his ears 
pricked up, like his steed’s, which he also cautiously watched, 
with the habitual readiness of a practised woodman. At length 
the tedium of his situation was relieved. The tramp of a horse 
was heard at a small distance, and as the traveller came up to 
the thicket, Watson Gray quietly rode out beside him. 

“Ha! Watson Gray!” exclaimed the new-comer, who was 
the person expected. 

“ The same, Joe Brydone,” was the answer of Gray, in tones 
which were gentle, quiet, and evidently intended to soothe the 
alarm of the other ; an alarm which was clearly conveyed in 
his faltering accents, and in the sudden movement of his bridle 
hand, by which his steed was made to swerve away to the op- 
posite side of the road. 

If his object was flight, it did not promise to be successful 
for the powerful and fleet ai imal bestrode by Gray left him nt 


A WITNESS SILENCED. 


425 


hope to escape by running from his unwelcome companion 
This lie soon perceived ; and, encouraged perhaps by the friend 
ly accent.of Gi ay’s voice, was content to keep along with him 
at the same pace which he was pursuing when they encountered. 
But his looks betrayed his disquiet. He had all the misgivings 
of the conscious traitor, apprehensive for his treasonable secret. 
On this head Gray did not leave him very long in doubt. 

“ I’ve been looking for you, Brydone.” 

“Ah ! why — what’s the matter?” 

“ Nay, nothing much, I reckon, only — you’re expected at the 

arony.” 

“ I know : — I’m on my way there now ” 

“ Ned Morton expects you !” 

“ Who : the captain ?” with some surprise. 

“ Yes ! a base charge is made against him by that scoundrel 
Stockton, and he wants you to disprove it.” 

“ What’s that ?” demanded the other. 

“ Why, neither more nor less, than that the captain has been 
making preparations to desert the troop, in violation of his oath.” 

“Well, but Gray, that’s the truth, you know,” said Brydone 
with more confidence. 

“ How ! I know ! — I know nothing about it.” 

“ Why, yes you do. Didn’t you send me yourself to Isaac 
Muggs, and tell me what to say and do ?” 

“ Brydone, you’re foolish. If I sent you, didn’t I pay you 
for going ; and isn’t it a part of our business that you should 
keep the secret if you keep the money ? You got paid for go- 
ing, and got paid for keeping the secret ; and now we expect 
you to go up and prove this fellow Stockton to be a liar and an 
ass.” 

“ I can’t do it, Gray,” said the other, doggedly. 

“ And why not ? There are more guineas to be got where 
the last came from.” 

“ I don’t know that,” was the reply. 

“ But you shall see. I promise you twenty guineas, if yon 
will swear to the truth, as I tell it to you, on this trial.” 

4 I can’t, Gray. I’ve told the truth already to Captain Stock- 
ton tend to more than him.” 


426 


THE SCOUT. 


“ But you were under a mistake, Brydone, my good fellow 
Don’t be foolish now. You will only be making a lasting enemy 
of Captain Morton, who has always been your friend, and who 
will never forget your treachery, if you appear in thig business 
against him.” 

“ His enmity won’t count for much when they’ve tried him, 
Gray. He must swing.” 

“ But mine will count for something. Would you be making 
an enemy of me, also ? If you go forward and swear against 
him, you swear against me too.” 

“ 1 can’t help it — it’s the truth.” 

“ But where’s the necessity of telling the truth at this time 
of day 1 What’s the use of beginning a new business so late 
in life? You’ve told Stockton, it seems; go forward then, and 
down face him that you never told him a word on the subject, 
and I will be your security for twenty guineas.” 

“ I can’t ; — I told Lieutenant Darcy also, and several others.” 

“ Ah ! that’s bad — that’s very bad. My dear Brydoiie, that’s 
unfortunate for all of us.” 

“ I don’t see how it’s unfortunate for more than him,” said 
Brydone, with recovered coolness. 

“ Why yes, it’s a loss to you ; a loss of money, and, perhaps, 
something as valuable. But there’s yet a way by which you 
may mend it, and prevent the loss. You shall have the twenty 
guineas, if you’ll just take the back track down the country, 
and be gone for five days. I don’t care where you go, or what 
you do in the meantime, so that you don’t come within twenty 
miles of the barony.” 

“ I can’t think of it,” said the other obstinately. 

Watson Gray regarded him earnestly, for a few moments, be- 
fore he continued. 

“ How a fellow of good sense will sometimes trifle with his 
good fortune, and risk everything on a blind chance Joe Bry- 
done, what’s got into you, that you can’t see the road that’s 
safest and most profitable ?” 

“ Perhaps I do,” replied the other with a grin of the coolest 
self-complaisance. 

He was answered by a smile of Gray, one of that sinister 


A WITNESS SILENCED. 427 

kind whi ill an observing man would shudder to behold in the 
countenance of a dark and determined one. 

“ Brydone,” he said, “let me give you some counsel — the 
last, perhaps, I shall ever give you. You’re in the way of dan- 
ger if you go up to the barony. There will be hot fighting there 
to-day. Captain Morton’s friends won’t stand by and see him 
• wing, to please a cowardly scamp like Stockton. You can 
save yourself all risk, and a good share of money besides, by 
taking the twenty guineas, and riding down the road.” 

“Ah, ha! Watson Gray! — but where then would be my 
share at the gutting of the barony ?” 

“ The share of a fool, perhaps, whose fingers are made use of 
to take the nuts from the fire.” 

“No more fool than yourself, Watson Gray; and let me tell 
you to look to yourself as well as the captain. There’s more 
halters than one in preparation.” 

“Ah, do you say so?” replied Gray, coolly, as the other 
jerked up the bridle of his horse and prepared to ride forward 

“ Yes ! and I warn you that you had better take the road down 
the country, rather than me. Your chance isn’t so much better 
than that of Ned Morton, that you can stand by and see him 
hoisted, without running a narrow chance of getting your neck 
into the noose. Now, take my word, for what I’m telling you — 
you’ve given me what you call good advice ; I’ll give you some 
in return. Do just what you wanted me to do. Turn your 
horse’s head and ride down the country, and don’t trust yourself 
wi'Jiin a day’s ride of the barony. By hard pushing, you’ll get 
\j Martin’s in time for breakfast, while I’ll ride for’a’d and take 
mine at the barony.” 

“ You are very considerate, Joe — very. But I don’t despair 
<.{ convincing you by the sight of the twenty guineas. Gold 
is so lovely a metal, that a handful of it persuades where all 
human argument will fail ; and I think, that by giving you a 
sufficient share of it to carry, you will stop long enough, before 
you go on with this cruel business. You certainly can’t find 
any pleasure in seeing your old friends hung ; and when it’s to 
your interest, too, that they should escape, it must be the worst 
sort of madness in you to go forward.” 


428 


THE SCOUT. 


“You may put it up. I won’t look. I’ll tell you what, 
Watson Gray — I know very well what’s locked up in Middle- 
ton barony. I should he a pretty fool to take twenty guineas, 
when I can get two hundred.” 

Meantime, under the pretence of taking the money from his 
bosom, Gray had taken a pistol from his belt. This he held in 
readiness, and within a couple of feet from the head of Brydone. 
The latter had pushed his horse a little in the advance, while 
Gray had naturally kept his steed in while extricating the 
pistol. 

“ Be persuaded, Brydone,” continued Gray, with all the gen- 
tleness of one who was simply bent to conciliate ; “ only cast 
your eyes round upon this metal, and you will be convinced. 
It is a sight which usually proves very convincing.” 

But the fellow doggedly refused to turn his head, which he 
continued to shake negatively. 

“No, no!” lie answered; “it can’t convince me, Watson 
Gray. You needn’t to pull out your purse and waste your 
words. Put up your money. I should be a blasted fool to give 
up my chance at Middleton barony, and Ned Morton’s share, 
for so poor a sum as twenty guineas.” 

“ Fool !” -exclaimed Gray, “then die in your folly! Take 
lead, since gold won’t suit you and, with the words, he pulled 
trigger, and drove a brace of bullets through the skull of his 
wilful companion. Brydone tumbled from his horse without a 
groan. 

“ I would have saved the ass if he would have let me. ” saia 
Gray, dismounting leisurely ; and, fastening his own and the 
horse of the murdered man in the thicket, he proceeded to lift 
the carcass upon his shoulder. He carried it into the deepest 
part of the woods, a hundred yards or more from the roadside, 
and, having first emptied the pockets, cast it down into the 
channel of a little creek, the watery ooze of which did not suf- 
fice to cover it. The face was downward, but the back of his 
head, mangled and shattered by the bullets, remained upward 
and visible through the water. From the garments of Brydone 
he gleaned an amount in gold almost as great as that which he 
had tendered him ; and, with characteristic philosophy, he thus 


A SEQUEL TO AN EVIL DEED. 429 

soliloquized while he counted it over and transferred it to his 
own pockets. 

“ A clear loss of forty guineas to the foolish fellow. This is 
all the work of avarice. Now, if his heart hadn’t been set upon 
gutting the barony, he’d have seen the reason of everything I 
said to him. He’d hare seen that it was a short matter of life 
and death between us. Him or me ! Me or him ! Turn it 
which way you will, like ‘ 96,’* it’s still the same. I don’t like 
to use bullets when other arguments will do : but ’twas meant 
to he so. There was a fate in the matter — as there is pretty 
much in all matters. He wasn't to listen to arguments this 
time, and I was to shoot him. He was a good runner — and 
that’s as much as could be said of him — but a most conceited 
fool. . . . Well, our reckoning’s over. He’s got his pay and dis- 
charge, and Stockton’s lost his witness. I was fearful I’d have 
to shoot him, when I set out. The foolish fellow ! He wouldn’t 
have believed it if I had told him. With such a person, feeling 
is the only sort of believing : a bullet’s the only thing to con- 
vince a hard head. He’s got it, and no more can be said.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A SEQUEL TO AN EVIL DEED. 

The probable and ultimate task which Watson Cray had 
assigned to himself for performance, on quitting the barony 
that morning, was fairly over ; but the murderer, by that san- 
guinary execution, did not entirely conclude the bloody work 
which he had thus unscrupulously begun. He was one of those 
professional monsters, whose brag it is that they make a clean 
finish of the job, and leave behind them no telltale and unneces- 

* The two numbers which compose the name of the old state district of 
Ninety-Six, expressing the same quantity when viewed on either side, sug- 
gested to one of the members of the legislature a grave argument for contin 
ning the name, when a change was contemplated, and effected, for that s* ction 
of country. A better argument for its preservation was to be found in the 
distinguished share which it had in the Revolutionary struggle. 


430 


THE SCOUT. 


sary chips which they might readily put out of sight. He had 
no scruples in pocketing the money which he had taken from 
the garments of Brydone ; but he knew that the horse of the 
murdered man could be identified ; and accordingly, though with 
much more reluctance than he had manifested in the case of his 
master, he decreed to the animal the same fate. He brought 
him to the spot where he had thrown the body, and despatched 
him in like manner, by putting a brace of bullets through his 
head. Then, with all the coolness of the veteran ruffian, he 
reloaded his weapons where he stood, and, having done so, 
returned quietly to the spot where his own steed had been 
fastened. 

But the “fate” about which Watson Gray had soliloquized, 
after the usual fashion of the ruffian, was disposed to be partic- 
ularly busy that day and in that neighborhood. The gratuitous 
killing of the horse, though designed to increase the securities 
of the murderer, helped really to diminish them. The report 
of his last pistol had awakened other echoes than such as were 
altogether desirable ; and he, who had so lately sent his fellow- 
creature to his sudden and fearful account, was soon aroused to 
the necessity of seeking measures for his own life and safety. 

He had left the plain which he had made memorable by his 
evil deed, not more than half a mile behind him, when he was 
startled by the mellow note of a bugle in his rear. A faint 
answer was returned from above, and he now began to fear that 
his path was beset by cavalry. Could it be that Stockton had 
got some intimation of his departure from the barony, and, 
suspecting his object, had set off in pursuit 1 This was the 
more obvious interpretation of the sounds which alarmed him. 
This was the most natural suspicion of his mind. 

He stopped his horse for a few seconds on the edge of the 
road, and partly in the cover of the wood, undetermined whether 
to dismount and take the bushes, or boldly dash forward and 
trust to the fleetness of his steed. But for the difficulty of 
hiding the animal, the former would have been the best policy. 
He chose a middle course and rode off to the left, into the forest, 
at as easy a pace as was possible. But he had not gone a hun- 
dred yards before he espied the imperfect outlines of three 


A SEQUEL TO AN EVIL DEED. 


431 


uorscmen in a group, on the very line lie was pursuing. They 
were at some distance, and did not, probably, perceive him 
where he stood. Drawing up his reins, he quietly turned about, 
and endeavored to cross the road in order to bury himself in 
the woods opposite ; but, in crossing, he saw and was seen by at 
least twenty other horsemen. 

The brief glimpse which was afforded him of these men 
showed him that they were none of Stockton’s, but did not les- 
sen, in any degree, his cause of apprehension, or the necessity 
of his flight. The pale-yellow crescent which gleamed upon 
their caps of felt or fur, and their blue uniforms, apprized him 
that they were the favorite troopers of .Clarence Conway; and 
the wild shout which they set up at seeing him, too plainly told 
the eagerness with which they were resolved to dash upon their 
prey. Gnashing his teeth in the bitterness of his disappoint- 
ment, he growled in loud soliloquy, as he drove the spurs into 
his charger’s sides, and sent him headlong through the woods. 

“ Hell’s curses on such luck. Here, when all was as it should 
be, to have him cross the track. It will be too late to get back 
to the captain !” 

At this time, the apprehensions of Watson Gray seemed en- 
tirely given to his superior. The idea of his own escape being 
doubtful, did not once seem to cross his mind. He looked up to 
the sun, which was now speeding rapidly onward to his meridi- 
an summits, and muttered, 

Eight good miles yet, and how many twists and turns be- 
side, the d — 1 only knows ! Would to Heaven that Stockton 
would only come into the woods now. There could be no more 
pretty or profitable game for us, than to see his rascals, and 
these, knocking out each other’s brains. Where the deuce did 
Conway spring from ? He’s after Stockton, that’s clear ; but 
what brought him below ? Not a solitary scoundrel of a runner 
in all last w^eek, to tell us anything — no wonder that we knock 
our skulls against the pine trees.” 

Such were his murmurings as he galloped forward. The pur- 
suit was begun with great spirit, from several quarters at the 
same time ; betraying a fact which Gray had not before expect- 
ed, and which now began to awaken his apprehensions for his 


m 


THE SCOUT. 


own safety. He was evidently environed by his foes. There 
had been an effort made to surround him. This, he quickly 
conjectured to have been in consequence of the alarm which he 
himself had given, by the use of firearms, in his late performances. 

“ So much for firing that last pistol. It was not needful. 
What did I care if they did find the horse afterward. Nobody 
could trouble me with the matter. But it’s too late for wisdom. 
I must do the best. I don’t think they’ve closed me in quite.” 

But they had. The very first pistol-shot had been reported 
to Conway by one of his scouts, and the troop had been scat- 
tered instantly, with orders to take a wide circuit, and contract 
to a common centre, around the spot whence the alarm had aris- 
en. The second shot quickened their movements, and their ob- 
ject was facilitated by the delay to which Gray was subjected 
in the removal of the body of Brydone, and in the search which 
he afterward made of the pockets of his victim. He soon saw 
the fruits of his error — of that which is scarcely an error in a 
sagacious scout — that Indian caution which secures and smooths 
everything behind him, even to the obliteration of his own foot- 
steps. 

He had ridden but a few hundred yards farther, when he dis- 
covered that the foe was still in front of him. Two of the “ Con- 
garee Blues,” well mounted and armed, were planted directly in 
his track, and within twenty paces of each other. Both were 
stationary, and seemed quietly awaiting his approach. 

A desperate fight, or a passive surrender was only to be avoid- 
ed by a ruse de guerre. The chances of the two former seem- 
ed equally dubious. Watson Gray was a man of brawn, of great 
activity and muscle. He would not have thought it a doubtful 
chance, by any means, to have grappled with either of the foes 
before him. He would have laughed, perhaps, at the absurdity 
of any apprehensions which might be entertained in his behalf, 
m such a conflict. But with the two, the case was somewhat 
different. The one would be able to delay him sufficiently long 
to permit the other to shoot, or cut him down, at leisure, and 
without hazard. Surrender was an expedient scarcely more 
promising. The Black Biders had long since been out of the 
pale of mercy along the Congaree ; and the appeal for quarter, 


A SEQUEL TO Ah EVIL DEED. 


on tli« part of one wearing their uniform, would have been 
swered by short shrift and sure cord. 

But there was a ruse which he might practise, and to which 
he now addressed all his energies. He lessened the rapidity ot 
his motion, after satisfying himself by a glance behind him, that 
he w r as considerably in advance of the rear pursuit. He was 
now sufficiently nigh to those in front to hear th«ir voices. 
They charged him to surrender as he approached; and, witli a 
motion studiously intended for them to see, he returned the pis- 
tol to his belt, which before he had kept ready in his hand. 
This was a pacific sign, and his reply to the challenge confirm- 
ed its apparent signification. 

“Good terms — good quarter — and I’ll surrender,” was his 
eply. 

“Ay, ay ! — you shall have terms enough,” was the answer ; 
and the young dragoon laughed aloud at the seeming anxiety 
with which the fugitive appeared to moist upon the terms ot 
safety. Gray muttered between his teeth 

“ He means good rope ; but he shall laugh t’other side of his 
mouth, the rascal !” 

Maintaining an appearance studiously pacific, and giving an 
occasional glance behind him, if prompted by terror. Gray 
took especial care to carry his horse to the right hand of the 
farthest trooper, who was placed on the right of his comrade, 
and, as we have said, some twenty paces from him. By this 
movement he contrived to throw out one of the troopers alto 
gether, the other being between Watson Gray and his comrade 
Approaching this one kfc began drawing up his steed, but when 
almost up, and when the dragoon looked momentarily to see him 
dismount, he dashed the spurs suddenly into the animal’s sides, 
gave him free rein, and adding to his impetus by the wildesl 
halloo of which his lungs were capable, lie sent the powerful 
steed, with irresistible impulse, full against the opposing horse 
and horseman. The sword of the trooper descended, but it was 
only while himself and horse were tumbling to the ground. A 
moment more, and Watson Gray went over his fallen opponent 
with a bound as free as if the interruption had been such onl}' 
*s a rush offers to the passage of the west wind. 


434 


T’JP SC'WT. 


But a new prospect of strife opened before bis path almost 
the • .it rfeer. One and another of Conway’s troop appear 
ed at umost every interval in the forest. The pursuing party 
were pressing forward with wild shouts of rage and encourage- 
ment from behind, and a darker feeling, and far more solemn 
conviction of evil, now filled the mind of the outlaw. 

“ A life’s only a life, after all. It’s what we all have to pay 
one day or another. I don’t think I shortened Joe Brydone’s 
very much, and if the time’s come to shorten mine, I reckon it 
wouldn’t be very far off any how. As for the captain, he don’t 
know, and he’ll be blaming me, but I’ve dme the best for him. 
It’s only on his account I’m in this hobble. I could easily have 
managed Stockton on my own. Well, neither of us knows who’s 
o be first ; but the game looks as if ’twas nearly up for me. It 
won’t be the rope though, I reckon. No ! no ! I’m pretty safe 
m that score.” 

The dark impressions of his mind found their utterance, in 
this form, in the few brief moments that elapsed after the dis- 
covery of his new enemies. They did not seem disposed to 
await his coming forward, as had been the .case with the dra- 
goon whom he had foiled and overthrown. They were advan- 
cing briskly upon him from every side, lie would willingly have 
awaited them without any movement, but for the rapidly sound- 
ing hoofs in the rear. These drove him forward ; and he de- 
rived a new stimulus of daring, as he discovered among the ad- 
vancing horsemen the person of Clarence Conway himself. 

Watson Gray had imbibed from his leader some portion of 
the hate which the latter entertained, to $ degree so mortal, for 
his more honorable and fortunate brother. Not that he was a 
man to entertain much malice. But he had learned to sympa- 
thize so much with his confederate in crime, that he gradually 
shared his hates and prejudices, even though he lacked the same 
fiery passions which would have provoked their origination in 
himself. The sight of Clarence Conway aroused in him some- 
thing more than the mere desire of escape. Of escape, indeed, 
he did not now think so much. But the desire to drag down 
with him into the embrace of death an object of so much anxi- 
ety and hate, and frequent vexation, was itself a delight ; and 


A SEQUEL TO AN EVIL DEED. 


455 


the thought begat a hope in his mind, which left l.h' t compara- 
tively indifferent to all the dangers which might have threaten- 
ed himself. He saw Conway approaching, but he did not now 
. ;:it for his coming. To remain, indeed, was to subject him to 
’:<* necessity of throwing away his resources of death and ol 
; Science, upon the less worthy antagonists who were closing up 
ironi behind. Accordingly, drawing both pistols from his belt, 
he dropped the reins of his horse upon his neck, and gave him 
the spur. 

“Beware!” cried Conway to the troopers around him, as he 
saw this action — “ the man is desperate.” 

He himself did not seem to value the caution which he ex- 
pressed to others. He dashed forward to encounter the des- 
perate man, his broadsword waving above his head, and forming, 
in their sight, the crescent emblem of his followers. With loud 
cries they pressed forward after his footsteps ; but the splendid 
charger which Conway bestrode, allowed them no chance of in- 
terposition. The resolute demeanor, and reckless advance of 
Conway, probably saved his life. It drew the precipitate fire 
of W atson Gray, and probably disordered his aim. The bullet 
shattered the epaulette upon Conway’s shoulder, and grazed 
the flesh, but scarcely to inflict a wound. Before he could use 
the second, a henchman of Conway’s, a mere boy, rode up, and 
shivered the hand which grasped it by a shot, almost sent at 
hazard, from a single and small pistol which he carried. In an- 
te, her moment the sweeping sabre of Conway descended upon 
the neck of the outlaw, cutting through the frail resistance of 
coat and collar, and almost severing the head from the shoulders, 
i he eyes rolled wildly for an instant — the lips gasped, and 
idightly murmured, and then the insensible frame fell heavily 
to the earth, already stiffened in the silent embrace of death. 
The space of time had been fearfully short between his own 
fate, and that which the murderer had inflicted upon Brydone. 
His reflections upon that person, may justify us in giving those 
which fell from the lips of Clarence Conway, as the victim was 
identified. 

“Watson Gray !” said he, “a bad fellow, but a great scout. 
Next to John Bannister, there was not one like him on the 


486 


THE SCOUT. 


Congaree. But he was a wretch — a had, Moody wretch ; — he’s 
gone tu a : eadful and terrible account. Cover him up, men, as 
soon as you have searched him. Lieutenant Monk, attend to 
this man'c burial, and join me below. We must see wliat he 
has been about there. You say two pistol shots were heard V' 

“ Two, sir, about ten minutes apart.” 

“ Such a man as Watson Gray, never uses firearms without 
good cause — we must search and see.” 

Dividing his little force, Conway gave the order to “ trot,” 
and the troop was soon under quick motion, going over the 
ground which they so recently traversed. The search was keen, 
and, as we may suppose, successful. The body of Brydone and 
that of his horse were found, but, as he was unknown, it excited 
little interest. That he was a Black Rider, and an enemy, was 
obvious from his dress ; and the only subject of marvel was, why 
Watson Gray should murder one of his own fraternity. It was 
midday before Clarence Conway took up the line of march for 
Middleton barony, and this mental inquiry was one for which he 
could find no plausible solution until some time after he had ar- 
rived there. Let us not anticipate his arrival. 


CHAPTER XL. 

BUCKLING ON ARMOR. 

It may readily be supposed that the disappearance of Watson 
Gray caused some uneasiness in the mind of his principal ; but 
when, hour after hour elapsed, yet brought neither sign nor word 
which could account for his absence, or remedy its evil conse- 
quences, the uneasiness of the outlaw naturally and propor- 
tionally increased. The fearful hour was speeding onward to 
its c isis, as it seemed, with more than the wonted rapidity of 
time. The aspect of events looked black and threatening. 
Wounded and feeble, wanting in that agent who, in his own 
prostration, was the eye, and the wing, and the arm, of his re- 
solves, Edward Morton could not shake off the gathering clouds 


BUCKLING ON ARMOR. 


43 T 


of apprehension which hung heavy about his soul. He had 
risen at the first blushing of the day, and, with the assistance of 
a servant, contrived to put on his garments. The sword which 
he was scarcely able to wield — certainly, with no efficiency — 
was buckled to his side; — but his chief reliance, in the event of 
a last struggle, lay in his pistols, of which an extra pair had 
been provided by Watson Gray, the moment he discovered the 
probable danger of his superior. 

As the day advanced, and Gray did not appear, the outlaw 
felt it necessary to make those preparations, the chief duty of 
which now promised to devolve upon him ; and with some diffi- 
culty, descending to the lower story of the house, he proceeded 
to drill his men in anticipation of the worst. He had already 
resolved not to go further, unless Gray made his appearance in 
season and counselled the measure. He had, from the first, been 
opposed to the trial ; though he could not but acknowledge that 
the arrangement had been most favorable, at the time, which 
his confederate could hope to make. He was now more thor- 
oughly confirmed than ever in his determination to keep his 
defences, and convert the mansion house into a stronghold, 
which he would surrender only with his life. 

The surgeon, Hillhouse, was present, with a double share *of 
resolution, to second his resolve. The picture which Watson 
Gray had judiciously presented to his mind, the night before, of 
the sacking of his various wardrobe, by the Sable mutineers, had 
been a subject of sleepless meditation to him the whole night, 
and had imbued him with a bitter disposition, to kill and destroy, 
all such savage levellers of taste and fortune as should cross his 
path or come within shooting distance from the windows. His 
person was decorated with more than usual care and fastidious- 
ness that morning. He wore a rich crimson trunk, that shone 
like flame even in the darkened apartments. This was tapered 
off with stockings of the softest lilac ; and the golden buckles 
which glittered upon his shoes, also served to bring “ a strange 
brightness to the shady place.” His coat, worn for the first 
time since he had reached the barony, was of the rich uniform 
of the British Guards Altogether, Surgeon Hillhouse in his 
present equipments, n ade a most imposing figure. His per 


438 


THE SCOUT. 


son was not bad, though his face was monstrous ugly ; and 
he possessed a leg which was symmetry itself. He measured 
at annual periods, the knee, the calf, and the ankle, and by a 
comparison with every other handsome leg in the army, he had 
been able to satisfy himself that his was the perfect standard. 
It did not lessen the military effect of his appearance, though 
somewhat incongruous with Ins display in other respects, that 
he wore a common belt of sable strapped about his waist, in 
which were stuck half a dozen pistols of all sizes. He had a 
taste in this weapon, and had accumulated a moderate assort- 
ment, most of which were richly wrought and inlaid with bits 
of embossed plate, of gold and silver ; carvings and decorations 
which took the shapes of bird, beast, and flower, according to 
the caprice or fancy of their owner ; or, it may be, the artist 
himself. The more serious and stern outlaw met this display 
with a look of scorn which he did not seek to suppress, but 
which the fortunate self-complaisance of the other did not suffer 
him to see. 

“ You don’t seem, Mr. Hillhouse,” he observed, as they met, 
‘to anticipate much trouble or danger in this morning’s work.” 

“ Ah sir ! and why do you think so ?” demanded the other 
Vith some curiosity. 

“ Your garments seem better adapted for the ball-room and 
the dance, than for a field of blood and battle. You may be 
shot, and scalped, or hung, sir, in the course of the morning.” 

“ True, sir, and for that reason, I have dressed myself in this 
fashion. The idea of this extreme danger, alone, sir, prompted 
me to this display. For this reason I made my toilet with ex- 
treme care. I consumed, in my ablutions, an entire section of 
my famous Chinese soap. You perceive, sir, in the language 
of the divine Shakspere” — stroking his chin complacently as 
he spoke — “‘I have reaped the stubble field also — my chin 
was never smoother ; and, in the conviction, sir, that I might 
be called upon this day, to make my last public appearance, I 
have been at special pains to prepare my person to the best ad- 
vantage, for the inspection of the fortunate persons who will 
make the final disposition of it. To die with dignity, and to 
appear after death with grace, has been the reflection which hae 


BUCKLING ON ARMOR. 


489 


occupied my mind this morning, as I made my toilet. My med- 
itations were necessarily of a melancholy complexion. If these 
rogues are to inherit my wardrobe, let me make as much use 
of it as I can. I may probably secure this suit to myself by 
dying in it like a man.” 

The outlaw scarcely heard these forcible reasons — certainly 
he did not listen to them. He was already busy in disposing, 
to the best advantage, of his half score of muskets. The house 
was one of comparatively great strength. It was of brick, built 
for service, and had been more than once defended against the 
assaults of the Congarees. With an adequate force it might 
have been held against any assailants, unless they brought ar- 
tillery. But the little squad of Edward Morton was wretchedly 
inadequate to its defence, even against the small force of Stock - 
ton. It required all of his skill, courage, and ingenuity, to make 
it tolerably secure. He now more than ever felt the absence of 
Watson Gray. The readiness of resource which that wily ruf- 
fian possessed, would, no doubt, have been productive of very 
important assistance. Even if the garrison could hold out 
against assault, they could not hope to do so against famine. 
The provisions of the plantation were already at the mercy of 
the Black Riders. 

The outlaw surveyed his prospects with sufficient misgivings. 
I 1 hey were deplorable and discouraging enough. But he never 
once thought of faltering. His soul felt nothing but defiance. 
His words breathed nothing but confidence and strength. He 
laughed — he even laughed with scorn — when Hillhouse said 
something , of a capitulation and terms. 

“Terms, sir! ay, we’ll give and take terms — such terms as 
lie at the point of these bayonets, and can be understood from 
the muzzle of gun and pistol. Terms, indeed ! Why do you 
talk of terms, sir. when we can beat and slay the whole gang 
of them in twenty minutes ! Let them approach and give us a 
mark at all, and what chance can they have, with their pistols 
only, against these muskets ? Really, Mr. Hillhouse, for a gen- 
tleman of high rank in his majesty’s army, I am surprised that 
you should hold such language. If you dread the result, sir— 
you are at liberty to leave the house this very moment. Go, sir. 


440 


THE SCOUT. 


to a place of safety, if you can find it ; or make your own terms 
with our enemies, as you or they please. Try it, and you’ll find 
that your fine clothes will be one of the best arguments for 
hanging you to the first tree; — the Black Riders have long 
since learned that the finest bird is to be first plucked. We 
shall remain where we are, and probably inherit your wardrobe 
after all.” 

The surgeon was abashed and confounded for the moment 
He had not often been compelled to listen to such language ; 
nor did the outlaw intend it so much for the ears of the person 
whom lie addressed as for those who listened around him. He 
knew the value of big words and bluster, in a time of doubt and 
danger, to the uninformed and vulgar mind. He felt that 
nothing could be hoped for, at the hands of his small party, if 
any of them were suffered to flinch or falter. He knew the 
importance of all that he himself said ; but the surgeon did not 
once suspect it. He recovered from his astonishment, and, after 
a brief delay, his wounded pride found utterance. 

“ Really, sir — Mr. Conway — your language is exceedingly 
objectionable. I shall be constrained to notice it, sir ; and to 
look for redress at your hands at the earliest opportunity.” 

“Any time, sir — now — when you please — only don’t afflict 
me with your apprehensions. If you can not see, what is clear 
enough to the blindest mole that -ever ploughed up a plain field, 
that these scoundrels stand no sort of chance against us, in open 
assault— -no words of mine, or of any man, can make you wiser. 
Like Hugely, you would surrender, I suppose, at the enforce- 
ment of a pine log.” 

A hearty laugh of the soldiers attested the inspiriting influences 
which they had imbibed from the confident bearing and words 
of Morton, and their familiarity with an anecdote which, but a 
little time before, had provoked much mirth in both parties at 
the expense of a provincial officer, in the British army, served 
to increase their confidence.* It may be supposed that this 

Colonel Hugely had command of a British stockade near Camden, which 
was garrisoned by an hundred men. It was summoned by Colonel William 
Washington. *' Washington was without artillery; but a pine log, which was 
ingeniously hew n and arranged so as to ’“semble a field-piece, enforced, to the 


BUCKLING ON ARMOR. 


441 


burst of merriment did not diminish the anger of Hillhouse ; hat 
he contented himself with saying that he should “ bide his time.” 

“ You are right, sir, in this respect,” said Morton, “ we have 
neither of us any time for private squabbles. Do your duty man- 
fully to-day, Mr. Hillhouse, and if we survive it, I shall be ready 
to apologise to you to-morrow, or give you whatever satisfaction 
will please you best. But now to work. These shutters must 
be closed in and secured.” 

The lower story was completely closed up by this proceeding. 
The shutters, of solid oak, were fastened within, and, ascending 
to the upper story, Morton disposed his men in the different 
apartments, with strict warning to preserve the closest watch 
from the windows, at every point of approach. Having com- 
pleted his disposition of the defences, he requested an interview 
with the ladies of the house, which was readily granted. The 
outlaw and surgeon were accordingly ushered into an antecham- 
ber in which, amidst the stir and bustle of the events going on 
below, the ladies had taken refuge. The gentlemen were re- 
ceived with kindness. At such moments — moments of sudden 
peril and unexpected alarm — the human ties assert their supe- 
riority, over the forms of society and the peculiar habits of edu- 
cation, through the medium of our fears ; and even the suspicions 
which the ladies might have had, touching the character of Ed- 
ward Morton — whom they knew only as Edward Conway — 
and the contempt which they felt for the fopperies of Hillhouse, 
gave way entirely before the pressing and mutual necessities 
which prevailed to the probable danger of the whole. 

But, in truth, the appearance of the outlaw, at that moment 
of his own superior peril, was well calculated to command the 
admiration even of those who loved him not. Man never looks 
so noble as when he contends calmly with the obvious danger — 
when, aware of all its worst characteristics, he yet goes forth to 
the encounter, with a stern deliberate purpose, which sustains 

commander of the post, the propriety of surrendering, at the first summons of 
the American colonel. This harmless piece of timber, elevated a few feet from 
the earth, was invested by the apprehension of the garrison with such formula 
ble power, that they were exceedingly glad t find a prompt acceptance of thei 
submission.”- History of South Carolina , p ' 87. 

i o* 


442 


THE SCOUT. 


him unshrinking to the last, and suffers him, at no moment, to 
seem palsied, weak, or indecisive. Edward Morton wore the as- 
pect of this firmness, in the presence of the ladies. They knew 
that he was the destined victim whom the Black Riders professed 
to seek, and seek only ; — they knew not exactly why — but their 
conjecture, naturally enough, in the absence of more certain 
reasons — assumed it to he in consequence of his Americanism. 

Whatever might he the cause, to be the foe of the Black 
Riders was, in all likelihood, to be the friend of virtue and the 
light ; and as he stood before them, erect for the first time after 
weeks of painful sickness and prostration — more erect than 
ever — with a demeanor that did not presume in consequence of 
his situation — nor challenge, by doubtful looks and tremulous 
tones, that sympathy which might well be asked for, but never 
by, “the brave man struggling with the storms of fate;” — he 
insensibly rose in the estimation of both, as his person seemed 
to rise nobly and commandingly in their sight. 

His voice was gentle and mournful — in this, perhaps, he did 
not forbear the exercise of some of his habitual hypocrisy. lie 
did not forget for a moment that the keen glances of Flora Mid- 
dleton were upon him ; and like most men of the world, he 
never forgot that policy which casts about it those seeds which, 
as they ripen into fruit — whatever the degree of probability — 
the same hand may gather which has sown. 

“ Ladies, I am sorry to tell you that my presence has brought 
danger to your house.” 

The venerable lady replied, promptly : — 

“ I trust, Mr. Conway, that, with the assistance of your fol- 
lowers, you will be able to keep the danger from it.” 

“ Alas, madam, I must not disguise from you the truth : we 
are as one to ten only ; we may slay many of the assailants, but 
if they are led by ordinary courage, they may eat through these 
walls in our spite. I have one hope — that Watson Gray, who 
left the house last night, will return in season, with a sufficient 
force to baffle them in their attempts. All that can be done 
now will bo to keep off the moment of danger — to parry for a 
while, and protract as long as we can, the storm which will 
come at last.” 


BUCKLING ON ARMOR. 


443 


“ Mr. Conway, I would not disparage your judgment or your 
valor; but the late General Middleton, when scarcely at your 
years, beat off three hundred Oongarees from the very threshold 
of this dwelling.” 

The outlaw modestly replied, with a bow of the head : — 

“ We will do what we can do, Mrs. Middleton; but we have 
a poor squad of ten men in all, not including Mr. Hillhouso and 
myself. I have no doubt Mr. Hillhouse will do his duty as 
becomes him ” 

“ As becomes a gentleman fighting in the presence of the 
fairest lady ” 

Morton continued his speech in season to interrupt some stilt 
ish common-place of the surgeon, which could only have been 
disgusting to the ladies. 

“ As for myself, you know my condition. I can die — I need 
not, I trust, say that, no man could feel it hard to do so, under 
such circumstances as prevail over us at present — but I have 
little strength to make my death expensive to our enemies. 
There is one thing, Mrs. Middleton, that I have deferred speak- 
ing to the last.” 

He hesitated, and his eyes were fixed sadly for a moment 
upon the face of Flora, then, as he met her glance, they were 
instantly averted. 

“What is that, sir?” demanded the old 

“ It is this, madam : there is one proceeding by which it is 
yet possible to avert from your dwelling the strife which will 
shortly threaten it.” 

'* In God’s name, sir, let it be resorted to ” 

‘'If it be right — if it be proper, only, mother,” cried Flora, 
earnestly, putting her hand upon the wrist of her grandmother. 

“ Certainly — surely, my child,” was the reply. “ Peace and 
safety are to he purchased only by just conduct. Speak, Mr. 
Conway, what is the alternative V* 

“ Professedly, madam, these ruffians seek me alone, of all this 
household. I am the sole object of their hate — the victim 
whom they have singled out for their special vengeance. Were 
I in their hands 

“ Surely, Mr. Conway, you wouffi not thiuk so meanly of n?y 


444 


THE SCOUT. 


mother and myself,” was the hasty interruption of Flora Middle- 
ton, “ as to fancy that we could be pleased at your giving up 
any security, however partial, such as our house affords you, 
because of the possible annoyance to which we might he sub- 
jected on account of this banditti. I trust that you will be 
able to defend the house, and I hope that you will do so to 
the last.” 

The outlaw seemed to catch lire at the manner of the gen- 
erous girl. Her own flashing eyes were full of a flame to 
impart enthusiasm to the dullest spirit ; and he exclaimed, with 
a more genuine feeling of zeal than was usual with him : — 

“ And, by heavens, I will ! You have stifled the only doubts 
which I had of the propriety of making your house my castle. 
] need not say to you that the hostility of these scoundrels to me 
is, perhaps, little more than a pretence. Even were I given up to 
them, and in their hands, they would probably sack your dwel- 
ling. They are just now, I suspect, released from nearly all 
restraint and subjection, and about to fly the country. Lord 
Rawdon has gone, or is on his way below, by another route, 
with all his forces ; and the men of Sumter, Lee, and Marion, 
are pressing at the heels of his lordship. Perhaps I speak with 
literal accuracy when I say that your safety depends on mine. 
If I fail to make good the house against these Black Riders — 
you already know their character — I t-erable for you! Your 
safety shall be no less in my thoughts, during this conflict, than 
my own; and I repeat, once more, my readiness to die before 
outrage and violence shall cross your threshold.” 

‘‘We thank you, sir — from the bottom of our hearts, we 
thank you, Mr. Conway — — ” 

Morton bowed, as he interrupted the strain of feminine ac- 
knowledgment : — 

“ Let me now beg you to seek the garret ; there you will be 
in tolerable safety. If we do not again meet, do me the justice 
to believe that I spared neither limb nor life in your behalf. I 
may fall, but I will not falter.” 

“God be with you, Mr. Conway!” was the ejaculation of 
both ladies. A blush tinged the cheek of tlie outlaw — a trem- 
ulous emotion passed through his veins. When, before, bad 


BUCKLING ON ARMOR. 44b 

tbt> pure of the purer sex uttered such an invocation in his 
behalf? 

“ Can it be an omen of ill,” — such was his reflection — “ that 
it is spoken, as it would seem, in the last moment of my 
career ?” 

“ I thank you, Mrs. Middleton ;'I thank you”-— to Flora, but 
he did not speak her name. The direction of his eye indicated 
the person to whom he spoke. His look and air were not una- 
droit. He still remembered hie policy ; and Flora Middleton 
fancied, as she turned away, that she had not often seen a no- 
bler-looking personage. The contrast between himself and Mr 
Hillhouse, perhaps, helped to strengthen this impression. A 
grave monkey is, of all objects, the most lugubrious, and the 
plain statements of the outlaw had suddenly made the surgeon 
very grave. He really did not imagine that things were in so 
deplorable a condition. Thinking over them rendered him for- 
getful of his fine sayings, and the attempt which he made to 
throw some pathos into his parting address to the ladies, was 
ridiculous without being easy, and elaborate and strained with- 
out being free or graceful. When they had gone, Mr. Hillhouse 
found a more ready tongue, and once more began to intimate 
the propriety of terms and a flag of truce. 

In India, once, an affair of the Sepoys — very much like the 
present— a sort of mutiny and insurrection — ” 

“ No more of this nonsense,” said Morton, with the old habit 
of command which belonged to the captain of the fierce ban- 
ditti by which he was now threatened. “ It’s time, Mr. Hill- 
house, to be a man, if you ever hope to be like one. Do you 
hear that trumpet, sir? It is a summons — it opens the busi- 
ness. You talk of terms and overtures — how do you like the 
idea of making them from the balcony of yonder porch ? What ! 
it does not please you? Yet it must be done. Musketeers, 
to the windows ! Cover the approach to the porch, and shoot 
as I bid — see that no man comes within pistol-shot. I, myself, 
will parley with these scoundrels. 

The door of the great passage-way which divided the dwel- 
ling centrallv was thrown open, and the outlaw presented him- 
self in the ballon v to the eyes of the Black Riders, who had 


THE SCOUT. 


£46 

assembled, some thirty or forty in number, in detached groups, 
about fifty yards from the building. A yell of ferocious exulta- 
tion hailed his appearance from below, and attested the excited 
feelings of malicious hate with which they had been wrought 
upon to regard their ancient leader. 


CHAPTER X L I. 

THE SIEGE AND STORM. 

A simile of mixed bitterness and derision passed over the lips 
of the outlaw, as he hearkened to the rude but mighty uproar. 

“ Dogs !” he muttered, “ there was a time when I would have 
made you crouch beneath the lash to your proper attitude: — 
and 1 may do so yet. I am not wholly powerless e v on 7. • 

As they shouted, an involuntary movement was made by 
several among them. They rushed toward him, as if tried 
purpose had been to approach him with determined violence. 
Several of them were dismounted, and these, waving their pis- 
tols aloft, were evidently disposed to bring themselves within 
the necessary distance which should permit of the certain use 
of their weapon. But Morton, in the intervals of their clamor, 
suffered, them to hear his brief, stern command to the musketeers, 
whom they might behold at the windows, to be in readiness and 
watchful. 

“ Shoot down the first scoundrel that advances with arms. 
Take good aim and spare none, unless I bid ye.” 

This order produced a pause in tlieir career. Some incerti- 
tude seemed to prevail among them, and, at length, Morton 
distinguished, beneath a tree in the distance, the persons of 
Stockton, Darcy, and two others, who were evidently busy in 
the work of consultation. He himself quietly took liis seat 
upon one of the benches in the balcony, and patiently waited 
the result of this deliberation. His pistols, broad-mouthed and 
long, of the heaviest calibre, were ready in his hand and uein 
and all well loaded with a brace of halls. 


THE SIEGE AND STORM. 


447 


Meanwhile, his resolute appearance, placid manner, and the 
indifference which his pc . Ton displayed, were all provocative 
of increased clamors and commotion among the crowd. They 
were evidently lashing themselves into fury, as does the bull 
" hen he desires the conflict for which he is not yet sufficiently 
blinded and maddened. Ones of various kinds, but all intended 
to stimulate their hostility to him, were studiously repeated by 
the emissaries of his successor. Not the least influential were 
those which dilated upon the spoils to be gathered from the 
contemplated sack of the barony — an argument which had 
most probably been more potent than any other in seducing 
them away from their fealty to the insubordinate desires of 
Stockton. 

Morton watched all these exhibitions without apprehension, 
though not without anxiety ; and when he turned, and gave a 
glance to his few followers within the house — drilled men, stub- 
born and inflexible, who could easier die, under, the command 
to do so, than obey the impulse to flight without hearing the 
“ retreat” sounded, but who had no other resources of mind and 
character beyond the dogged resolution taught by their military 
life — his heart misgave him. He felt what he himself might 
do in command of the Black Riders against such defenders as 
he then possessed ; and he did not deceive himself as to the 
probable result. One hope yet remained. It was that Wat- 
son Gray was somewhere busy in his behalf. His eyes often 
stretched beyond the park, in the direction of the high road, in 
the vain hope to see his confederate, with some hastily-gathered 
recruits, marching to his rescue. At that very moment Gray 
was quivering in the few brief agonies of death, which he 
endured under the sabre of Clarence Conway. 

The deliberations of Stockton and his confederates were soon 
at an end, and with them the doubts of the outlaw. Stockton 
himself made his appearance in the foreground, bearing a white 
handkerchief fastened to a sapling. His offensive weapons he 
ostentatiously spread out upon the earth, at some distance from 
the mansion, when he came fairly into sight. His course, which 
was intended to inspire confidence in himself among his follou 
ers, had been dic.t.-;< • ' !■'. . v. 


448 


THE SCOUT. 


“ They must see that you’re as bold as Ned Morton. He 
comes out in full, front, and you must do no less. You must go 
to meet him. It will look well among the men.” 

There were some misgivings in Stockton’s mind as to the 
probable risk which he incurred ; nor was Darcy himself en- 
tirely without them. Morton they knew to be desperate ; and 
if he could conjecture their intentions toward him, they could 
very well understand how gladly he would avail himself of the 
appearance of Stockton to extinguish the feud in his blood. 
The idea, in fact, crossed the mind of Morton himself. 

“That scoundrel!” — lie muttered as Stockton approached 
him — “is the cause of all. Were he out of the way — and a 
single shot does it ! — but, no ! no ! — he has put down his arms ; 
and then there’s that base scoundrel Darcy in the background. 
Were I to shoot Stockton, he would bring out another of these 
blood-hounds to fill his place. I should gain nothing by it. 
Patience ! Patience ! I must bide my time, and wait for the 
turn of the die.” 

Meanwhile, Stockton advanced, waving aloft his symbol of 
peace. Morton rose at his approach, and went forward to the 
railing of the balcony. 

“ Well,” — he demanded — “ for what purpose does Lieutenant 
Stockton come V’ 

“ Captain Stockton, if you please. He comes to know if you 
are ready to deliver yourself up for trial by the troop, as was 
agreed upon by Watson Gray yesterday.” 

“ Let Watson Gray answer for himself, Captain or Lieutenant 
Stockton. He will probably be upon your backs with Coffin’s 
cavalry in twenty minutes. For me, sirrah — hear the only an- 
swer I make. I bid you defiance ; and warn you now to get 
to your covert with all expedition. You shall have five minutes 
to return to your confederates ; if you linger after that time — 
ay, or any of your crew — you shall die like dogs. Away !” 

The retort of Stockton was that of unmeasured abuse. A 
volume of oaths and execrations burst from his lips ; but Morton 
resuming his seat, cried to the musketeers — 

“Attention — make ready — take aim!” 

Enough was effected, without making necessary the final 


THE STEGE AND STORM. 


44 $ 


command, to “ fire.” Stockton took to liis heels, in most undig- 
nified retreat ; and, stumbling before be quite regained the shel- 
ter of the wood, fell, head foremost, and was stretched at full 
length along the earth, to the merriment of some and the vexa- 
tion of others among his comrades. 

The fury of the conspirator was increased by this event ; and 
he proceeded, with due diligence, to commence the leaguer. His 
corps were suddenly commanded to disappear from the open 
ground ; and when Edward Morton saw them again, they were 
in detached parties, preserving cover as well as they could, 
along the edges of the park, the avenue, a small thicket of sas- 
safras and cedar that lay along the northern skirts of the man- 
sion-house, and such of the outhouses and domestic offices, as 
could bring them near enough to act upon the defenders without 
exposure of themselves. 

The body thus distributed was formidably numerous when 
compared with that of Morton. His estimate made them little 
less than sixty men. Immediately in front, though beyond the 
sure reach of musketry, Stockton, himself, prepared to take his 
stand, surrounded by some half dozen of his troop ; and among 
these, to the increased annoyance of Morton, he saw one who 
unslung a rifle from his shoulder. At this sight he at once with- 
drew from the balcony, secured the door, and commanded his 
musketeers to sink from sight, and avoid unnecessary exposure. 
The warning was just in season. In the very instant while he 
spoke the* glass was shattered above his own head, and the sharp, 
clear sound which accompanied the event attested the peculiar 
utterance of the rifle. 

“ A little too much powder, or a young hand,” said Morton 
coolly. “ Give me your musket, one of you?” 

He took his place at the window, detached the bayonet from 
the muzzle of the gun, and handed it back to the soldier. 

“But for the steel” — meaning the bayonet — “the smooth 
bore would be a child’s plaything against that rifle. But I have 
made a musket tell at a hundred yards, and may again. We 
must muzzle that rifle if we can.” 

The gun was scarcely lifted to the eyes of the speaker before 
If s dull, heavy, roar was heard, awakening all the echoes of the 


THE SCOUT. 


1,0 

surrounding woods. The men rushed to the window, and as the 
smoke lifted, they perceived that the party of Stockton was dis- 
persed, while one man stood, leaning, as if in an attitude of suf- 
fering, against a tree. The rifle, however, appeared in another 
hand at some little distance off. Morton shook his head with 
dissatisfaction, as he recollected that while there were fifty men 
in the ranks of the enemy, to whom the rifle was a familiar 
weapon, to disarm one, or a dozen, was to do little or nothing 
for his own and for the safety of his party. In a few moments 
after, sudden cries and a discharge of firearms from the opposite 
quarter of the building betrayed the beginning of the strife 
where Mr. Hillhouse commanded. 

“ Keep as well covered as you can, men ; but watch well 
that they do not close in with you. You are but twelve feet 
above them, and at that distance a pistol is quite as dangerous 
as a musket. I leave you for an instant only, to look at the 
rear.” 

There, he found Hillhouse, doing his duty as bravely as if he 
had no fine uniform at hazard. 

“ You take a needless risk,” said Morton, as he beheld him 
flashing one of his pretty, but trifling weapons, at the invaders, 
and exposing, the while, his entire person to their aim. “ There 
will be time enough for that when they are pressing through 
the breach.” 

“ They are at it now,” said the other, with a momentary for- 
getfulness of all his circuitous phraseologies. “ They’ve got 
ladders, and are trying to mount.” 

“Indeed!” cried the outlaw, drawing his sabre from (he 
sheath, and pushing Hillhouse aside, with a seeming forgetful- 
ness of his own wounds and infirmities. He approached the 
window, and saw the truth of the surgeon’s representations. A 
squad of the Black Riders had, indeed, pressed forward to the 
wall sufficiently nigh to plant against it, the rack, which they 
had taken from the stables ; and which furnished them a solid 
and sufficient ladder to carry up two men abreast. Hillhouse, 
in his haste had suffered the four musketeers who had been al- 
lowed him, for the defence of the rear, to fire simultaneously, 
and, in the interval required by them to reload their pieces, the 


THE SIEGE AND STORM. 4ol 

ladder had been planted, and half a dozen sable forms were al* 
ready darting upward, upon its rungs. 

‘ Reload, instantly !” Morton cried to the musketeers. “ Keep 
your small pistols for close conflict, Mr. Hillhouse — -they are fit 
ioi nothing better.” 

'The now cool, observing outlaw, receded a moment from the 
a indow, while a blaze of pistol-shot from without, shivered the 
glass. He awaited this discharge, only, to advance, and with 
better aim, to level a brace of pistols at the same moment, 
among his foes, just when the ladder was most darkened, and 
trembling, with their forms. 

Of the foremost assailants, when the broad muzzles met their 
glance, one dashed resolutely forward up the ladder, but received 
the bullet through his brain and tumbled headlong backward ; 
while the other, with less audacity, endeavoring to retreat, was 
forced onward by those behind him. He had the alternative 
only, of throwing himself over, which he did at the risk of a 
broken neck ; and the bullets of the remaining pistol, which 
Morton had drawn from his belt, were expended upon the rest 
of the scaling party, by whom they were utterly unexpected. 

This discharge had the effect of clearing the ladder for an 
instant ; and Morton, commanding two of the musketeers, who 
had now reloaded, to keep the enemy at a distance, by a close 
watch from an adjoining window, endeavored, with the aicf of 
tire remaining two, to draw the ladder up, and into the window 
against which it rested. But the weight of the massive frame 
was infinitely beyond their strength ; and the outlaw contented 
himself with cutting away the rungs, which formed its steps, 
with his sabre, as far as his arm could reach. He had not fin - 
ished this labor ere he was summoned to the front. There, the 
enemy had also succeeded in drawing the fire of the musketeers ; 
and then, closing in, had effected a permanent lodgment beneath 
the porch below 

This was a disaster. Under the porch they were most effec- 
tually sheltered from any assault from above, and could remain 
entirely out of sight, unless they themselves determined other- 
wise. How many of them had succeeded in obtaining this cover, 
could not be said by the soldiers. Their conjecture, however. 


452 


THE SCOUT. 


represented it at ten at least — a force fully equal to that which 
was engaged in the defence. 

The brow of Morton grew darker as he discovered this cir- 
cumstance. The net of the fates was evidently closing around 
him fast ; and, for a moment, he gazed anxiously over the dis- 
tant stretch of the road, in the fond hope to see Watson Gray 
riding in to his succor. But he turned away in hopelessness at 
last. His despondency did not, however, lead to any relaxation 
of his courage, or of that desperate determination, which he en- 
tertained, to make the fight as terrible to his foes as their hos- 
tility threatened to be terrible to him. A momentary cessation 
of the strife appeared to have taken place. The outlaws, who 
were beneath the balcony, remained perfectly quiescent. 

“ They can do nothing there, unless we let them. Now, men, 
do you keep your arms ready. Throw away no shot at the 
cracking of a pistol. What should it matter to you if the fools 
snap their puppies all day at a distance of fifty yards. Lot no 
more of them join these below the porch, if you can help it — 
let none of these get away if bullet3 can stop their flight ; but 
do not all of you fire at once. Keep one half of your muskets 
always in reserve for the worst.” 

While giving these instructions, Morton was prepared in get- 
ting his own weapons in readiness. The strife once begun, with 
the loss of men to the assailants, could not, he well knew, come 
to an indefinite or sudden conclusion. There was to be more of 
it, and his chief apprehensions now arose from the party which 
had found lodgment under the portico below. To the lower 
story he despatched one of his soldiers, whom he instructed to 
remain quiet, in the under passages of the house, in order to 
make an early report of any movements which might take place 
in that quarter. 

He had scarcely adopted this precaution before the clamors of 
battle were again renewed in the part where Hillhouse was sta- 
tioned. Twenty shots were fired on both sides, without inter- 
mission, in as many seconds, and, in the midst of all, a deep 
groan and the fall of a heavy body in the adjoining room, struck 
cold to the heart of Morton. He could ill afford to lose any one 
of his small array He hurried tc the scene of operations, and 


THE SIEGE AND STORM 


468 


found that one of tlie soldiers had fallen. He still lived, hut 
the wound was in his bosom ; and a hurried inspection showed 
it to be from the fatal rifle. The ragged orifice, wrought by the 
peculiar revolutions of the deadly twist, was large enough to 
have received a small fowl egg. The dying man looked up to 
the outlaw, as if to ask if there was any hope. So Morton un- 
derstood the appealing inquiry in his eyes, and he answered It 
with soldierly frankness. 

“ Make your peace with God, my good fellow ; it’s all over 
with you. You’ll be dead in five minutes.” 

The man groaned once, shivered fearfully, then turned upon 
his face. His arms were once stretched out — his fingers en- 
deavored to grasp the floor, then relaxed, then stiffened, and he 
lay unconscious of the rest. He was dead. Morton stepped 
over his body and took a hurried glance at the window. 

“We have shot three of them,” said Hillhouse. 

“ Would it were thirty ! But all will not do. Are you loaded, 
men, and ready ?” 

“ Yes !” was the answer of all. 

“ Then keep ready, but keep out of sight. Wait till they 
mount the ladder, expend no more shot, but rely on the push of 
the bayonet. There are four of you, and they have but the one 
ladder. The rifle can not be used while they are on it, and at 
no other time need you show yourselves.” 

Such were the hurried directions of the outlaw, which were 
interrupted by the renewal of the conflict. Once more they 
were upon the ladder, but, this time, the clamors arose also in 
front. The attack was simultaneous in both quarters. 

“ Oh, for twenty muskets, but twenty,” — cried the now thor- 
oughly aroused Morton, as he made his vny once more to the 
little squad which he had left in front — “ and dearly should they 
pay for this audacity ! Nay, if I only had my own strength !” 
he murmured, as he leaned, half fainting, against the door-lintel 
in the passage. 

A new assault from another quarter, aroused him to the con- 
sciousness of his increasing dangers, and stimulated him anew 
with the strength to meet it. The thunders of an axe were 
heard against the lower door of the entrance, and from the por. 
tico where the party had previously found a lodgment. 


THE SCOUT. 


454 

< This was what I feared ! The trial, the danger, is here aj 
last ! But the game is one at which both of us may do mischief, 
j must be there to meet them. Heaven send that Stockton 
may be the first to find entrance !” 

The soldier now appeared from below giving him the infor- 
mation, which he no longer needed, of the dangers that threat- 
ened from that quarter. The cheering reply of Morton sent 
him down again. 

“Ay, ay, back to your post! You shall have help enough 
before they get in — before you need it.” 

From the upper part of the house he drew all the soldiers 
with the exception of three. One of these kept his place in the 
front, the other two in the rear, where the attempt had been 
made to force an entrance by means of the ladder. These sta- 
tions were left under the direction of the surgeon. The greater 
danger was now below. He considered the efforts of those 
above to be feints simply. 

“ Mr. Hillhouse, you have only to be wary. Your two bay- 
onets, with your own pistols, will keep down all your enemies. 
But, should you apprehend otherwise, draw the musket from 
the front of the house to your assistance. There is perhaps less 
likelihood of assault from that quarter. Below the struggle 
must be made hand to hand. The passage is narrow, and six 
stout men may be able to keep it against twenty. Farewell, sir 
— be firm — I may never see you again.” 

The surgeon had some tender philosophy, gleaned from his 
usual vocabulary of common-places, to spend, even at such a 
moment, and Morton left him speaking it. 

He hurried down stairs with the six soldiers, whom he sta- 
tioned in the passage-way, but a little in the back-ground, in 
order that they should not only escape any hurt from the flying 
fragments of the open door as it should be hewn asunder, but 
that a sufficient number of the banditti might be allowed to pen- 
etrate and crowd the opening. Meanwhile the strokes of the 
axe continued with little interval. The door was one of those 
ancient, solid structures of oak, doubled and plated with ribs 
which, in our day, might almost be employed for beams and 
rafters. It had been constructed with some reference to a siege 


THE SIEGE AND STORM. 


456 


from foes who used no artillery; and its strength, tluufth it did 
not baffle, yet breathed not a few of the assailant, before it 
yielded to the final application of the axe. As ti e solmters 
flew around them, Morton wiped the heavy and clammy dew c 
from his forehead. Cold chills were upon him, and yet he felt 
that there was a burning fever in his brain. The excitement 
was too great; — the transition from the bed of wounds and 
sickness, he felt, must work the most fatal effects even if he sur 
vived the struggle. But the solemn conviction had at length 
reached his soul that he was not to survive. The awful truth 
had touched his innate mind, that, in a few hours, he must be a 
portion of the vast, the infinite, the strange eternity. 

'• Surely ! I shall not find it hard !” was the audible speech 
which this conviction forced from him. He started at the sound 
of his own voice. Thought was painful and torturing. The 
pause which had been allowed him, left him only to agony ; and 
he longed for the coming on of the strife, and the reckless con- 
flict, to relieve him by their terrible excitements, from thoughts 
and feelings still more terrible. 

This relief, dreadful as it threatened to be, was now at hand. 
The massive bolts which secured the frame-work of the door 
were yielding. Some of the panels were driven in — and the 
soldiers were preparing to lunge away, through the openings, at 
the hearts of the assailants. But this, Morton positively forbid. 
In a Avhisper, he commanded them to keep silent and in the 
background. Their muskets were levelled, under his direction, 
rather under breast height, and presented at the entrance ; and, 
n this position, he awaited, with a stillness like that which pre 
,edes the storm, for that moment when he might command all 
nis bolts to be discharged with the unerring certainty of fate. 

Moments now bore with them the awful weight of hours ; the 
impatient murmurs deepened from without ; the strokes of the 
axe became redoubled ; and the groaning timbers, yielding at 
every stroke, were already a wreck. Another blow, and the 
work was done ! Yet, ere the dreadful certainty yawned upon 
them — ere the chasm was quite complete — a wild chorus of 
yells above stairs — the rush of hurrying footsteps — the shrieks 
and the shot — announced to the gloomy outlaw, below, the oc- 


4*6 


THE SCOUT. 


euiTcnce of some new disaster. His defences were driven in 
above ! 

A troop of the outlaws bad, in fact already effected then en- 
trance. They had literally clambered ,up the slender columns 
of the portico in front — the sentinel placed in that quarter hav- 
ing been just before withdrawn to the rear by Hillhouse, who 
deemed that he would be more useful there, and under his com- 
mand. This, with a vanity natural to such a person, he desired 
to make as respectable as possible. Lifting one of the sashes, 
without being heard in the din which prevailed below, they had 
found their way silently into the apartment. Stealing cautiously 
along the passage, they had come upon the surgeon, while him- 
self and little squad were most busy with the assailants from 
without. The skirmish between them had been short. The 
first notice that Hillhouse had of his danger, was from the pistol- 
shot by which he was stricken down. His men turned to meet 
their new enemies, and in the brief interval that ensued, other 
foes dashed up the ladder, through the window, into the apart- 
ment, and put the finishing stroke to the conflict there. 

Hillhouse was not so much hurt as not to be conscious, before 
sinking into insensibility, that the outlaws were already stripping 
him of his gorgeous apparel. His scarlet coat had already passed 
into the hands of a new owner. 

Meanwhile the work was going on below. Morton, when he 
heard the uproar above, readily divined the extent of his mis- 
fortune. But he was not suffered to muse upon it long. His 
own trial was at hand. The door was finally driven from all 
its fastenings, there was no longer any obstruction, and the liv- 
ing tide poured in, as Morton fancied they would, in tumultuous 
masses. Then came the awful order from his lips to “fire!” 
It was obeyed by the first file of three men, kneeling; the re- 
maining three followed the example a moment after ; and yells 
of anguish ensued, and mingled with the first wild shouts of tri- 
umph of the assailants ! 

It was a moment of mixed pain and terror ! Perhaps, if they 
could have recoiled, they would have done so. But this was 
now a physical impossibility. The crowd in the rear pressed 
forward and wedged their comrades who were in the foreground ; 


THE SIEGE AND STORM. 


45 


while the bayonet plied busily among them. But what could 
be done, in that way, by six men in a hand to hand conflict with 
six times their number. The strife was dreadful, but short 
Man after man of the outlaws, was spiked upon the dripping 
steel ; but the mass, unable to retreat, were driven forward, mad 
and foaming, under the feeling of desperation which now filled 
their hearts. They had now ceased to think or fear, and rushed 
like the wild bull upon the ready bayonets. The soldiers went 
down under the sheer pressure of their crowding bodies. The 
Black Eiders darted among and over them, searching each heart 
separately with their knives ; and the only strife which now re- 
mained was from the unavoidable conflict among themselves of 
their jostling and conflicting forms. The hoarse accents of 
Stockton were now heard, pre-eminent above the uproar, giving 
his final orders. 

“ Take Ned Morton alive, my merry fellows. He owes a life 
to the cord and timber Save him for it if you can.” 

Morton had reserved himself for this moment. 

“Ye have tracked the tiger to his den !” he muttered, in the 
shadow of the stairway, where he had taken his position, partly 
concealed in the obscurity of the passage. The crisis of his fate 
was at hand. The party from above A\ r erc now heard hurrying 
downward, to mingle in the melee below ; and he levelled his 
pistols among the crowd in the direction of Stockton’s voice, 
and fired — and not without effect. He was now too deliberate 
to throw away his bullets. One of them passed through the 
fleshy part of the shoulder of his inveterate enemy, who was in 
the advance ; while the other prostrated in death one of his most 
forward followers. 

Stockton screamed with mingled pain and fury, and with 
sabre lifted, darted upon his foe. Feebly shouting his hate an 1 
defiance, Morton also lifted liis sword, which he had leaned on 
the steps beside him for greater convenience, and advanced gal- 
lantly to meet the ruffian. They : et. and the whole remaining 
strength of Morton, treasured up for this very crisis, was thrown 
into his arm. But the tasks through which he had already gone 
had exhausted him. The limb fell nerveless by his side, and 

20 


458 


THE SCOUT. 


ere the blow of Stockton descended, he had sunk down in uttei 
insensibility at the feet of his opponent. 

The conflict was ended. The pledge made to the ladies of 
the mansion had been fully redeemed by its defenders. Not 
one of them remained unhurt ; and the greater number were 
already stiffened in the unrelaxing grasp of death. The out 
laws had paid dearly for their victory. No less than sixteen of 
the assailants had been slain; and the arts of Stockton, whirl, 
had originally won them over to his designs, and made them 1 
hostile to their ancient leader, now derived additional support 
from the sanguinary feeling which had been induced by the 
bloody struggle in their minds. They were now reconciled to 
that decree which determined that Morton should be their vic- 
tim. They needed no more persuasion to resolve that he should 
die upon the gallows. 

The first impulse of Stockton, as he straddled the inanimate 
body of the man whom he so much feared and hated, was to 
spurn it with his foot — the next to make his fate certain by a 
free use of his sword upon it ; but the cold malignity of his char- 
acter prevailed to prolong the life and the trial of his enemy. 

The utter impotence of Morton to do further harm, suggested to 
Stockton the forbearance which he would not otherwise have 
displayed. It was with some pains only, and a show of resolu- 
tion such as Morton had usually employed to hold them in sub- 
jection, that he was enabled to keep back his followers, who, in 
their blind rage, were pressing forward with the same murderous 
purpose which he had temporarily arrested in his own bosom 
With a more decided malignity of mood, he gave a new direc- 
tion to their bloody impulses. 

“Away!” he cried, “get a hurdle, or something that will 
Jako him out without much shaking ! He has life enough in 
him yet fov the gallows !” 

A shorn seconded with approbation the dark suggestion, and 
'he crowd rushed away to procure the necessary conveyance. 

& door, torn from »»„■ * nthouse, answered this purpose ; and the 
itill breathing, but motionless form of Edward Morton, was lifted 
upon it. Unhappily, he wakened to consciousness in a few mo 
ments after leaving the trneshold of the dwelling. The pureT 


THE SIEGE AND STORM. 


atmosphere without revived him ; and his eyes opened to en- 
counter the biting scorn, and the insulting triumph, of the 
wretches he had so lately ruled. His ears were filled with the 
gross mockeries of those whom his bloody resistance had stimu- 
lated to new hate and a deeper ferocity of temper. 

A bitter pang went, keenly through his heart ; but he had still 
a hope. He bad kept one hope in reserve tor some such occa- 
sion. Long before, when he first commenced that dark careei 
of crime, the cruel fruits of which he was about to reap, he had 
provided himself with a dagger — a small, stout, but short instru- 
ment — which he hid within his bosom. This instrument he 
devoted to the one particular purpose of taking his own life. 
He had decreed that it should be sacred — not to employ lan- 
guage illegitimately — to tlie one work of suicide only. But 
once, indeed, he had almost violated his resolve. The same 
instrument he had proffered to poor Mary Clarkson, in a mood, 
and at a moment of mockery, scarcely less bitter than had fallen 
to his own lot. The remembrance of the circumstance touched 
him at this instant, and humbled, in some degree, the exulting 
feeling which was rising in his breast, at the recollection of his 
resource. But he did exult, nevertheless. He felt that the 
dagger was still about him, hidden within the folds of his vest ; 
and, with this knowledge, he was better able to meet the vin- 
dictive glance of his foe, who walked beside the litter on which 
the outlaws were bearing him to the wood. 

“ Bring him to the Park !” commanded Stockton. “ He wil 
hang there more conspicuously, as a warning for other traitors.” 

“ No ! No ! — not there !” said Darcy, interposing, “ the ladies 
can see him from the house.” 

“Well, and a very good sight it is, too!” replied the other 
brutally ; “ they’ve seen him often enough dancing on the earth 
I fancy ; it may be an agreeable change to behold him dancing 
in air awhile.” 

A few serious words, however, whispered in his ears by Darcy, 
prevailed with Stockton to effect a change in his brutal resolu- 
tion ; and the cavalcade took its way in the direction of the 
woods where the encampment of the Black Riders for the night 
had been made. It was intended tiiat there the crowning scene 
of hate and punishment should take place. 


THE SCOUT. 


4»J0 


CHAPTER XLJT. 

HATE BAFFLED BY JUSTICE. 

Meanwhile, what had been the condition of mind of the 
ladies in the dwelling? They had heard the greater part of 
the bloody struggle going on below — the shots, the shouts, the 
groans and shrieks, and all the infernal clamors of that strife of 
moral feelings and physical passions, in which man, alone, of all 
the animals, is permitted to indulge. The rending of bolt and 
bar had also been audible, and they readily conjectured all the 
rest. They finally knew that the barriers were forced ; and 
when the first rush of the strife was over, and the silence of 
death prevailed for the first time below, then did they feel as- 
sured that death himself was there, surrounded by all his melan- 
choly trophies. 

How terrible was then that silence ! For the first time during 
.he whole period of their suspense, did Flora Middleton yield 
herself up to prayer. Before, she could not kneel. While the 
storm! raged below, her soul seemed to be in it; she could not 
divert it to that calmer, holier contemplation, which invests the 
purpose with purity, and lifts the eye of the worshipping spirit 
to the serene courts of Heaven. Her father’s spirit was then 
her own, and she felt all its stimulating strength. She felt that 
she too could strike, should there be occasion ; and when, at one 
moment, the clamor seemed to be approaching, her eye kindled 
with keener fire, as it looked round the dim attic in which they 
had sought refuge, as if in search of some weapon which might 
defend it. 

“It’s all over!” at length she exclaimed, when the silence 
had continued the space of half an hour. “ They have left the 
house; mother.” 

“ Ho not trust to go out yet, my child,” was the answer of the 


HATE BAFFLED BY JUSTICE. 


461 


grandmother. “I fear some trick, some danger; — for why 
should they leave us undisturbed, so long.” 

“ Hark ! mother ! — there is a noise below.” 

“ Yes ; I think so ! I hear it !” 

“A footstep! — I should know that footstep! A voice! It 
is — it must be the voice of Clarence Conway.” 

The keen sense of the interested heart had not deceived the 
maiden. Clarence Conway was, indeed, within the dwelling. 
With limbs that trembled, and a heart that shuddered as he ad- 
vanced, the young commander trod the avenues of the dwelling 
which bore such bloody proofs, at every footstep, of the fearful 
conflict which we have faintly endeavored to describe. The 
victims were all unknown to him, and their uniforms, those 
equally of the British and the banditti, did not awaken in him 
any sympathy in their behalf. On the contrary, it would seem 
that enemies alone had fallen, and the inference was natural 
enough that they had fallen by the hands of those who were 
friends to the country. 

But how should the patriots have assailed the enemy in tin 
dwelling which, hitherto, among all the Americans, had been 
considered sacred ? Even though it had been made their place 
of retreat and refuge, such, he would have preferred it to re- 
main, sooner than its peaceful and pure sanctuary should have 
been dishonored by such unholy tokens. But the more serious 
concern which troubled him, arose from his apprehensions for 
Flora and her grandmother. He hurried through the several 
chambers, calling on their names. Well might his voice thicken 
with a husky horror, as he heard the responses only of the 
deserted apartments, in so many mocking echoes. At length, 
when he was most miserable, and when, in his further search in 
the upper chambers, he dreaded lest he should happen on 
their mangled remains, his ear recognised, or he fancied, 
.'•:«8wer in those toner* which wore then donbly dear to his 
senees. 

“ Flora, dear Flora !” he cried aloud, but with a. rapidity of 
utterance which almost made his syllables incoherent, lest he 
should somehow log* the repetition of the sweet assurance which 
he had ro farnriy heard before. The door of the attic was 


462 


THE SCOUT. 


thrown open in the next instant, and the voice of the maiden 
summoned him to her presence. 

He clasped her in his arms with a fervor which could not be 
put aside ; which no mere looks of reserve could discourage or 
repulse ; nay, under circumstances of relief to the maiden which 
wrought in her mind a momentary forgetfulness of his supposed 
perfidy. 

“Thank God, you are safe!” was his fervent ejaculation; 

‘ but tell me, dear Flora, what means the horrible Carnage which 
has taken place below ?” 

“Oh, Clarence — your brother! Is he not there — is he not 
among the slain ?” 

“No! lie is not among them — what of him? I see none 
among the slain but British and sworn enemies.” 

“ Then they have made him prisoner — the Black Riders — 
they made the assault upon the house because he was in it ; 
their avowed purpose being to execute death upon him as a 
rebel.” 

A sad smile passed over the lips of Clarence, as he heard 
these words, and his head was shaken with a mournful doubt. 

“ He has nothing to fear from them , Flora !” he replied, “ but 
where are they ? How long is it since this dreadful affair took 
place.” 

“ Scarce an hour. The horrible strife I seem to hear now. 
To my. senses it is scarcely ended.” 

“ Enough ! I must believe you then. I must fall upon these 
bloodhounds if I can. Farewell, dear Flora — farewell, for a 
little while.” 

“ But your brother — remember, Colonel Conway, that he is 
your brother !” 

“ Colonel Conway !” exclaimed the young soldier, with a sur- 
prise that was greatly increased as he beheld the looks of the 
speaker, now suddenly cold and frozen. 

“There is some! I dig wrong, Flora, I perceive; and it all 
comes from that same brother, whose relationship you arc oe 
anxious to have me remember. Would to God that he had re- 
membered it. But I will save him if I can. You may be right 
— he may bo in danger. Those bloody wretches would not 


HATE BAFFLED BY JUSTICE. 


46b 

make much difference between friend and foe, in their love of 
strife and plunder. But meet me not with such looks when I 
return.” 

“ Fly, if you would save him. I tremble, Oolonel Conway, 
lest you should be too late !” 

“ Colonel Conway, again ! Flora Middleton, you have again 
listened to the voice of the slanderer. There must be an ex 
planation of this, dear Flora.” 

“There shall be, but fly now, if you would be of service— 
if you would lessen the difficulties of that explanation.” 

“ Be it so ! I leave you, Flora, but will leave a few trusty 
men to rid your dwelling of these bloody tokens. Meanwhile, 
spare yourself the sight; keep youi present place of retreat, 
till you hear my voice. Farewell.” 

“ Farewell !” — the word was uttered by Flora with emphatic 
fervor. From her heart she wished him, of all others, to fare 
well ! She looked with a longing, lingering gaze after his noble 
form, so erect, so commanding, so distinguished in all its move- 
ments, by the governing strength of a high and fearless soul 
within. 

“ Can such a presence, conceal such baseness !” she murmured, 
as she returned to the attic. “ Can it be, dear mother 1” was 
the apparently unmeaning expression which fell involuntarily 
from her lips, as she buried her face in bitter anguish in the 
bosom of the maternal lady. 

Clarence Conway immediately set his troop in motion. He 
detached his more trusty scouts in advance. At the moment of 
leaving the house, he had no sort of intelligence which could 
designate the position of the Black Riders, or even assure him 
of their near neighborhood. Not an individual was to be seen 
around the dwelling. The slaves of the plantation, at the first 
approach of the conflict, took flight to the swamp-thickets ; and 
in these they would remain until long after the storm had over- 
blown. 

Conway moved forward therefore with the greatest caution. 
He might be entering an ambuscade, and certainly had reason 
to apprehend one, in consequence of the sudden flight of the 
banditti from the mansion house before they had sacked it Tht* 


m 


THE SCOUT. 


idea that Edward Conway had anything really to fear from 
those whom lie too well knew to be his confederates, was some- 
thing of an absurdity, which he found little difficulty in dismis- 
sing from his mind. He rejoiced, at the first moment of receiv- 
ing the intelligence, that his brother lived — that he had survived 
due fiercer conflict which had taken place between them. 

Bat, an instant after, and lie almost regretted that such was 
the case. It was his duty to pursue him as a public enemy, 
and one of a cast so atrocious that, he well knew, if taken, his 
life would probably be required by the hands of the summary 
avenger. The stem justice which in those days required blood 
for blood, had long since selected the fierce chief of the Black 
Riders as a conspicuous victim for the gallows ; and Clarence 
Conway, as a means to avoid this cruel possibility, issued the 
sanguinary orders to his troop to show no quarter. The ten- 
derest ftirm of justice called for their extermination in the short- 
est possible manner. 

This resolve was made and the command given, after he had 
been advised by the scouts that the enemy were collected in 
force upon an open ground on the river bluff, a short mile and a 
half above. The scouts reported that a good deal of confusion 
appeared among them, but they could not approach sufficiently 
nigh to ascertain its particular occasion ; having returned, in 
obedience to orders, as soon as they had traced out the enemy’s 
place of retreat. They also conveyed to Conway the further in- 
telligence that they might have gone much nearer with impu- 
nity — that the foe, so far from forming an ambush, had not, in 
fact, taken the usual precautions against attack — had not thrown 
out any sentinels, and might be surprised with little difficulty. 

Upon hearing this, Clarence Conway gave orders for a divis- 
ion of his force into three equal parties ; one of which was de- 
spatched to make a circuit, and gain a point above them on the 
river ; a second was ordered to traverse the liver banks from 
below ; while he, himself, leading on the third division, was to 
burst suddenly upon them from the forest — the nearest point 
from which the attack could be made. 

These orders had scarcely been given, before the sound of a 
rifle was heard, in the direction of the spot where the outlaws 


HATE BAFFLED BY JUSTICE. 


465 


were assembled, and this was followed by a confused clamor, as 
of many voices. This hurried the movement. What was the 
meaning of that shot ? Did it indicate alarm among the enemy ? 
Were they apprized of his approach? Clarence Conway, in all 
his conjectures, made no sort of approach to the real nature of 
that one rifle-shot, and yet it was of some importance to him and 
to his feelings. It rendered a portion of his task less irksome, 
and far less difficult. 

Silently, he led the way for his division — not a bugle sounded 
— scarce a word was spoken, and the parties separated on their 
several courses, with no more noise than was unavoidable, from 
the regular and heavy tread of their horses’ feet. It was fortu- 
nate for them, perhaps, that the banditti which they sought 
were only too busy in their own purposes to be heedful of their 
foes until it was too late. But let us not anticipate. 

The Black Riders had borne their victim, with slow steps, 
upon his litter, to the spot which had been chosen for his last 
involuntary act of expiation. Their advance was preceded by 
that of our old friend, the watchful scout, John Bannister. Anx 
ious, to the last degree, for the safety of the ladies of the bar- 
ony, he had tracked the steps of the outlaws to the assault upon 
the dwelling — following as closely upon their heels as could be 
justified by a prudential regard to his own safety. He had be- 
held s.0 much of the conflict as could be comprehended by one 
who was compelled to maintain his watch from a distant covert 
in the woods. The cause of the fight, and the parties to it, were 
equally inscrutable to him ; and this, too, added not a little to 
the anxiety which filled his mind. This anxiety grew to agony 
when he discovered that the defences of the dwelling were 
broken down, and the house in the possession of the banditti. 
The fate of Flora Middleton was in their hands, and he was im- 
potent to serve or save her. His anguish was truly indescriba- 
ble, as it was nearly insupportable. 

But he was suddenly aroused from its indulgence, when he 
beheld the crowd, as, leaving the house, it advanced through 
the grounds to the very spot in the woods in which he had made 
his hiding-place. It became necessary to decamp ; and as be 
Sped I > • >. to the place wfficre lie had left his canoe in the cus« 

on# 


466 


THE SCOUT. 


tody of the landlord and Jacob Clarkson, he was somewhat surprised 
to find that they continued to follow in his footsteps. Somewhat 
wondering at this, and at their brief delay in the dwelling which 
they had entered after so obstinate a conflict, he ordered Muggs to 
put himself, Clarkson and the canoe into close cover, while he, ad- 
vancing somewhat upon the higher grounds before them, could, from 
a place of concealment, observe the conduct of the enemy, and 
prescribe the farther conduct of his own attendants. 

He had not long to wait . The Black Riders brought their pris- 
oner to the very spot where the body of Mary Clarkson lay buried. 
The fainting form of the outlaw chief was leaned against the head- 
board which the devoted Bannister had raised to her memory; and 
as the anguish following the transfer of his body to the ground from 
the door on which it had been borne, caused Morton to open his eyes, 
and restored him to consciousness, the letters “ M. C.” met his first 
glance; but their import remained unconjectured. He had not much 
time allowed him for conjectures of any kind. His implacable foe, 
Stockton, stood before him with looks of hate and triumph which the 
prostrate man found it difficult to endure, but utterly impossible to 
avoid . 

“ It is all over with you, Ned Morton,” said the other. “ Will 
you beg for your life — will you supplicate me for mercy? ” 

A smile of scorn passed over the lips of the outlaw . 

“ My life is not in your hands,” he replied; “ and, if it were, it 
should be thrice forfeit before I should acknowledge your power and 
ask your mercy. I bid you defiance to the last. I look upon you 
without fear, though with unsuppressed loathing, as I quit the world, 
and, in this way, do I baffle all your malice.” 

As he spoke these words, he drew the little stiletto suddenly 
from his bosom, and plunged it desperately, and with an effort of all 
his strength, full at his own heart. But the blow was baffled. The 
hand of Darcey, who had placed himself behind Morton without his 
knowledge, was extended at the moment, and grasped the arm which 
impelled the weapon . 

“ Not so fast ! ” cried Stockton, as he wrested the dagger from 


HATE BAFFLED BY JUSTICE. 


467 


his hand, and flung it from him, “there’s no cheating the halter. It’s 
a destiny ! ” 

The baffled outlaw writhed himself about, and looking round 
upon Darcy, with a bitter smile, exclaimed — 

‘ ‘ May your last friend fail you, as mine has done, at the last mo- 
ment!” 

A faintness then came over him, his eyes closed, and he sank back 
exhausted upon the little hillock which covered Mary Clarkson. 
Little did he at that moment conjecture on whose bosom his body 
temporarily found repose. 

“Up with him at once,” cried Stockton; “or he will cheat the 
gallows at last.” 

An active brigand then ran up the trunk of a slender water 
oak that stood nigliest to the spot. The rope was flung to him and 
fastened ; and two of the banditti, stooping down, raised the fainting 
outlaw upon their shoulders, while the noose was to be adjusted. As 
his form was elevated above the level of the rest, the crowd shouted 
with ferocious exultation. This brought back to the eyes of their 
destined victim, a portion of their former fire. He recovered a mo- 
mentary strength. He looked round upon them with scorn. He 
felt his situation, and all the shame, and all the agony — but his 
glances were full of life and defiance, and his cheeks were utterly 
unblenching. The moment of danger, and even of disgrace, was not 
one to fill his lirece soul with apprehension. 

“He’ll die game!” muttered John Bannister, who, at length, as 
he recognized the features of Edw r ard Conway, began to conjecture 
the truth and to comprehend the circumstances which were lately 
so inscrutable. 

“ He’ll die game; he’s got some of the good blood of the Con- 
ways, after all. But it’s a mortal pity he should die so, for the 
family’s sake. It’s a good name, and he’s the blood-kin of 
Clarence.” 

The scout lifted his rifle, as he thus soliloquized. The evident 
desire to interpose, and save the victim from one fate by the substitu- 
tion of another, was strong and anxious in his mind. 

“But, no!” — he said, after lie had drawn his sight upon the 
pale browr of the outlaw — “ If its to be done at all, Jake Clarkson’s 


468 


THE SCOUT. 


the man to do it. He’s got a sort of right to Ned Conway’s life. 
Jake ! Jake ! ” 

He called up the desolate old man, who, on the lower ground by 
the river, had not seen these proceedings. 

“Jake ! ” lie said — “is your rifle loaded ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” 

“ Then look, man ! — there’s your enemy — there’s Ned Conway — 
it’s him that they’re a-lifting up among them there. I ’spose they 
want to do him some partic’lar kind of honor, but it’s jest over poor 
Mary’s grave ! ” 

The words were electric ! The old man grasped and raised his 
weapon. He saw not the purpose of the crowd, nor did he pause to 
ask what was the sort of honor which they were disposed to confer 
upon the outlaw. He saw him ! — his face only ! That he knew, 
and that was enough. A moment elapsed — but one ! and the report 
of the rifle rang sharply along the river banks. In the same moment 
the men who were lifting Edward Morton to the tree dropped the 
body to the ground. The work of death was already done ! Their 
efforts were no longer necessary, as their design was unavailing. 
The bullet had penetrated the forehead of the outlaw and his blood 
streamed from the orifice upon the still fresh mould which covered 
the victim of his passions. The Black Riders turned to the quarter 
whence the shot, had come, but the boat of John Bannister, bearing 
himself and his associates, was already at some distance from the 
shore. 


CONCLUSION. 


469 


CHAPTER XLII. 

CONCLUSION. 

The rage of Stockton at being thus defrauded of bis prey at 
last, though violent, was of no effect. He discharged his own 
pistol at the boat which contained the fugitives; an idle act, 
which was followed by a like discharge from some twenty of his 
followers. They might as well have aimed their bullets at the moon. 
John Bannister answered them with a shout — which, to their con- 
sternation, found an echo from twenty voices in the woods behind 
them. They turned to confront an unexpected enemy. Clarence 
Conway was already upon them. His little band, in advance of 
the other two divisions, began the fray as soon as it had reached 
within striking distance; and the sudden effect of the surprise 
compensated well for the inadequacy of the asssailing party. The 
broadsword was doing fearful execution among the scattered ban- 
ditti, before Stockton well knew in what direction to turn to meet 
his enemy. 

But the power which he had thus so lately gained was too 
sweet, and had called for too much toil and danger to be yielded 
without a violent struggle; and, if mere brute courage could have 
availed for his safety, the outlaw might still have escaped the 
consequences of his indiscretion. He rallied his men with prompt- 
ness, enforced their courage by the exhibition of his own; and his 
numbers, being still superior to the small force which had followed 
Conway through the woods, the effect of his first onslaught was 
measurably neutralized, and the issue of the conflict soon grew 
doubtful. 

But it did not long remain so. The division from below soon 
struck in, and the outlaws gave way. They broke at length, and 
endeavored to find safety by flying up the banks of the river; but 
here they were met by a third division of Conway’s squadron, 


470 


THE SCOUT. 


and their retreat entirely cut off. Hemmed in on every side, 
assured that no quarter would he given them, they asked for none, 
hut fought and died upon the ground to which they had been 
forced. 

It was the fortune of Stockton to fall under the sahre of Clarence 
Conway; while Darcy, leaping into the river, perished beneath a 
blow from the clubbed rifle of John Bannister, whose boat, a moment 
after, touched the shore. 

Nothing could exceed the rapturous expressions of his wild 
whoop of joy at this unlooked-for meeting. Meeting with his 
friend and leader, in a moment of such complete victory, amply 
atoned to him for all the trials, risks and anxieties to which he had 
been exposed from the night of their separation. Not one of the 
Black Riders escaped the conflict. The greater number fell beneath 
the swords of their conquerors; but some few, in their desperation, 
leapt into the Congaree, which finally engulfed them all. Clarence 
Conway, after the close of the conflict, devoted a few painful 
moments to the examination of the bloody field. But John Bannis- 
ter threw himself between his commander and one of the victims 
of the day. The eye of Clarence searchingly fell on that of 
his follower; and he at once divined the meaning of the interrup- 
tion. 

“It’s here, then, that he lies, John? How did he die?” 

“ Yes, Clarence, there he is; — a rifle bullet kept off a worse 
eending. He died like a brave man, though it mou’t be he didn’t 
live like a good one. Leave the rest to me, Clarence. I’ll see that 
he’s put decently out of sight. But you’d better push up and see 
Miss Flora and the old lady. I reckon they’ve had a mighty scary 
time of it.” 

“I thank you, John. I will look but once on the son of my 
father, and leave the rest to you.” ^ 

“It’s a ragged hole that a rifle bullet works in a white fore- 
head, Clarence, and you’ll hardly know it;” said the scout as he 
reluctantly gave way before the approach of his superior. 
Clarence Conway gazed in silence for a space upon the inani- 
mate and bloody form before him ; a big tear gathered slowly 
in his eyes; but he brushed away the intruder with a hasty 
hand, while he turned once more to meet his followers who were 


CONCLUSION. 


471 


slowly gathering in the back ground. He felt, even at that mo- 
ment, a cheering sensation, as he knew that his brother had fal- 
len by another hand than his. That pang, at least, was spared 
him ; and for the rest, the cause of sorrow was comparatively 
slight. 

“ He could have lived,” he murmured as he turned away from the 
bloody spectacle — “ He could have lived only as a dishonored and a 
suspected man. 'His path would have been stained with crime, and 
dogged by enemies. It is better that it is thus! May God have 
mercy on his soul !” 

Our story is on the threshold of conclusion. We have little more 
to say. Flora Middleton and her lover were soon reconciled, 
and the misunderstanding between them easily and promptly 
explained. Jacob Clarkson and John Bannister were living 
and sufficient witnesses to save Clarence Conway the necessity 
of answering for himself, and of denouncing his late kinsman. 
Between unsophisticated and sensible people, such as we have 
sought to make our lovers appear, there could be no possibility 
of a protracted session of doubts, misgivings, shynesses and 
suspicions, which a frank heart and a generous spirit, could 
not breathe under for a day, but which an ingenious novelist 
could protract through a term of years, and half a dozen vol- 
umes. In the course of a brief year following these events, the 
British were beaten from the country, and Clarence and Flora 
united in the holy bonds of matrimony. The last was an event 
which nobody ever supposed was regretted by either. John 
Bannister lived with them at the barony, from the time of their 
marriage, through the pleasant seasons of a protracted life. Many 
of our readers may remember to have seen the white-headed old 
man who, in his latter days, exchanged his soubriquet of Supple 
Jack, for one more dignified, though, possibly, less popular among 
the other sex. He was called “Bachelor Bannister,” toward the 
closing years of his life, and, when in the presence of the ladies, 
did not quarrel with the designation. His long stories about the 
Revolution, of his own feats and those of Clarence Conway, were 
remembered and repeated by him, with little variation, to the last. 
In this he differed considerably from ordinary chroniclers of the 


472 


THE SCOUT. 


old scnool, simp*y, perhaps, because his stories were originally more 
truthful, and his memory, in spite of his years, which were “frosty 
yet kindly,” was singularly tenacious to the end. Our narrative has 
been compiled from particulars chiefly gained, though at second-hand, 
from this veracious source. 

John Bannister lived long enough to see the eldest son of Clarence 
Conway almost as good a marksman with the rifle, and as supple 
a forester, as he himself had been in his better days; and his 
dying moments were consoled, by the affectionate offices of those, 
whom, with a paternal wisdom, he had chosen for his friends from 
the beginning. It may be stated, en passant, that our exquisite, 
Mr. Surgeon Hillhouse, neither lost his life nor his wardrobe in the 
conflict at Middleton Barony. He survived his wounds and saved 
his luggage. His self-esteem was also preserved, strange to say, in 
spite of all his failures with the sex. He was one whom Providence 
had wondrously blessed in this particular. Of self-esteem he had 
quite as many garments, if not more, than were allotted to his person. 
He certainly had a full and fresh suit for every day in the year. 


THE EHD. 









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